


Conairt

by gaelicspirit



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alpha Scott McCall, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst with a Happy Ending, BAMF Melissa McCall, Blood, Chimeras, Drama, Friendship, Gen, Hurt Scott McCall, Hurt Stiles, Hurt/Comfort, Loyalty, McCall Pack, Pack, Pack Family, Protective Scott McCall, Protective Stiles, Scott is a Good Friend, Serious Injuries, Stiles Stilinski is a Good Friend, Werewolf Pain-Relief Magic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-25
Updated: 2016-04-25
Packaged: 2018-06-04 09:15:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 28,427
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6651919
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gaelicspirit/pseuds/gaelicspirit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A re-imagined ending of 5.10, <i>Status Asthmaticus</i>, and AU from there. The True Alpha rises solely on the strength and purity of character, by sheer force of will. Scott McCall was soon to realize his character came from his connection to his friends. Without that, not even his status as a true alpha can save him.</p><p><b>Disclaimer/Warning</b>: They’re not mine. More’s the pity. Title is Gaelic for “pack.” Rated PG-13 for bad words and bad wounds.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> It started out as a guilty pleasure. I was just going to watch one or two episodes. And then before I knew it, I was binge-watching three seasons on my Kindle and setting my DVR for upcoming episodes. I’m not sure who to blame for that, but whoever you are, I’m pointing at you.
> 
> I will tell you that I think the show was stronger before Season 4 and the myriad of additional characters and rapid-fire, not-quite-complete story lines invaded the clean canvas that once was the story of a teen bitten by a werewolf and trying to figure out what the hell to do about life now. That said, I’m still here, watching, ready to see what happens to Scott McCall, his captivating bestie, and his pack. 
> 
> **But.**
> 
> I was underwhelmed by the way season 5B geared up, taking us all over the map rather than focusing on what I wanted to see: the friendship between Scott and Stiles being repaired and how Scott’s pack has the strength to heal him. So I decided to remix it a bit. This starts out canon and goes AU pretty quickly. You’ll see where. 
> 
> I have no idea how in character you’ll find this, or if I got their voices right. And if any of you reading are die-hard fans, yes, I know that’s not where Parrish found Lydia and that there aren’t basement tunnels beneath the hospital. And I also know Deaton was MIA at this point, but that b/c he was off playing a zombie-killing priest on _The Walking Dead_ , so…. I’m basically taking a page out of Jeff Davis’ book and reformatting the world to make it fit my story. 
> 
> Hope you have fun.

_“Scott's always been about one thing: saving his friends. He will do anything and everything to save the people he cares about. When there's no chance of winning, he keeps fighting. When all hope is lost, he finds another way and when he's beaten down he stands up again_!”  
~ Derek Hale

~*~

When Scott McCall’s heart stopped beating, his mother was half-way across town.

Melissa McCall’s phone was set to vibrate, as it always was during hospital shifts, and when she pulled it from her pocket it felt heavier than usual. Scott’s number showed up on her screen, but she knew.

She _knew_.

In the way the world slowed around her, the way the air felt thicker, the way the nerve-endings in her fingers went numb then sparked alive in seconds. She held her breath, swiping the call live and putting the phone to her ear. Scott’s phone, but not his voice. Not a voice she knew would tell her he was okay. He _would be_ okay.

A primal scream of denial began in the back of her mind. She clenched her teeth, keeping her mouth closed because _no._ Not this way. Not her boy. _No_.

She didn’t recall deciding to move; she was simply in motion. Crossing rooms, crossing intersections, crossing town.

Rounding the corner to the high school library, she smelled the blood first. So much of it. Splattered and pooled and soaking through his shirt and staining his face. The boy who’d called her—called her from Scott’s phone with his trembling voice—tried to hold her back, tried to tell her that it had been too long.

That Scott was gone.

That the life she’d carried within her, the baby she’d fed and soothed and protected, the child she’d watched and shielded and taught, the boy she had _created…_ was dead.

As a nurse, she was trained to deal with trauma, with broken bones and damaged bodies, with blood and gore and lives ripped apart by the fragile failings of humanity. As the mother of a werewolf, she had learned to accept the possibility of the impossible. And she had witnessed Scott bring the impossible to life.

“He hasn’t had a pulse in over fifteen minutes…,” the boy— _Mason_ —spoke with breathy disbelief as she knelt next to Scott, placing her joined hands over the ruin of her son’s chest. “You can’t just bring someone back, that’s….”

“He’s not _someone_.” Her arms burned with the weight of her resistance, with the force of her thrusts, demanding he return to her. “He’s my son. And he’s an Alpha. And he’s _too strong_ to die like this!”

This wasn’t like last time. This wasn’t like pretending grief in the corridor of the hospital, the wail in her voice only partially an act. This wasn’t like seeing him pale and cold and still on a morgue tray, knowing he could be brought back, feeling his languishing heartbeat beneath her trembling fingers.

His chest was wet with his blood. His ribs gave willingly beneath her hands. His body was still except for her efforts.

“Come on!” She stared at his face, every line, every angle, so familiar. She stared at his eyes, so much like his father’s and yet nothing like them at all. “Open your eyes and look at me, okay?” Remembering his first cry, his first laugh, his first word. The first time she saw his eyes flash gold. The first time he showed her the Alpha red. “Come on. Breathe, baby. _Breathe_.”

Scott lay still. No tremor betrayed life. The gore of his chest caused her hands to slip.

The blood on his face stood out in stark contrast to the pale shade of his skin. A dark hand reached cautiously forward, hesitantly trying to bring her to her senses, to remind her that there were consequences to the life her son led. To the fact that he gave everything, willingly sacrificing to protect those he loved.

Sometimes, there was no coming back.

She paused. For one brief, terrifying moment she let reality lay like a shadow across her shoulders, thinking about those who’d been lost. Those she couldn’t save. Those he couldn’t protect.

Then she let her eyes rest on his face once more. His mouth, his eyes, the crooked jaw he’d inherited from his grandfather, the scar he’d gotten from skateboarding with Stiles. She remembered the weight of his tiny body in her arms on long nights filled with colic. The strangled fear that she choked down when he had his first asthma attack. His youthful defiance before his father finally left them. The need in his embrace when he grieved over the loss of his first love.

And Melissa fought back.

“He’s _too strong_ to die like this!”

She balled her hands into a fist, slamming them against his damaged chest and shoved Death away from her boy.

“Come on. You can do this!” Slam. “You’re an Alpha. You’re an _Alpha_!” SLAM. “Come on, Scott. Roar!” _SLAM._ “Come on, Scott. _ROAR_.” _SLAM!_

He listened.

The cry that curled up from within him turned his eyes red and lifted his head and shoulders from the ground, echoing through the library, through the school, out into the cursed town of Beacon Hills. It set Melissa back on her heels and sent Mason skittering away, covering his ears. The cry was indeed a roar, carrying with it the months of fear and uncertainty and pain— _so much_ pain—that Scott had trapped within him, weighing him down, burying him in despair.

As the cry tapered, Scott sank back against the floor, eyes closed, fangs extended, gasping desperately for air.

Melissa cautiously snaked her hand to her son’s throat, avoiding the bloody mess that was his chest now that it visibly moved with breath, and rested her fingers against his pulse.

“That’s my boy.”

* * *

When Scott McCall’s heart started beating, his pack trembled.

Most were unaware of why—a shiver, a twitch, a stumble—but some recognized the sensation for what it was: an Alpha defying death.

Derek Hale had made a new home in the desert of New Mexico, living most of his days as a wolf, shifting to human only when survival called for it. There was no drama, no crippling guilt, no overwhelming responsibility in this form. He simply lived—alone, silent, but free.

Then Scott died.

And Derek unexpectedly fell—human and naked and trembling with confusion—to the earth, staring around him at the desert night, the super moon caressing him with light. It wasn’t until the sensation of _life_ thrummed through him again that he realized what happened.

“Scott.”

It was more a breath than a word. A memory. An acknowledgment that he had a purpose once more.

He’d secured a small cabin on the edge of a quiet town for when his human form required it. Returning there, he gathered what he needed and headed west before the sun had gained dominance of the sky once more.

~*~

Isaac Lahey knew how to blend into the shadows.

The easiest way to avoid a beating from his father was to not be seen in the first place. It wasn’t until Derek Hale changed his life with a bite—and Scott McCall showed him that friends were an asset, not a liability—that Isaac discovered how to _use_ his natural ability to camouflage rather than _be used_ by it.

Alone in a city that not only didn’t know him but didn’t care to, Isaac found comfort in anonymity. Chris Argent had helped him establish a safe haven and foothold in Paris. When Scott called for help, Chris hadn’t hesitated, and Isaac hadn’t stopped him. Things were different now; he no longer needed to be watched over, cared for.

He no longer needed the protection of a pack.

And then he felt the tug—as though everything solid beneath him had disappeared for a fraction of a second, leaving him momentarily weightless and spinning. His involuntary gasp for air sounded too loud in his ears and caught the attention of his companions. He waved them off, grabbed his phone and found an alcove. The short bristles of his beard—masking his eighteen years—rubbed against the glass face as he waited to hear the familiar voice.

“You need to get here.”

“Derek—“

The older wolf didn’t let him finish, a growl humming low at the base of his words.

“It’s Scott.”

Isaac felt himself go cold, his pulse slowing, his heart tripping slightly against its steady rhythm. Scott was too strong—a true Alpha.

“Is he--?”

“I don’t know,” Derek bit off. “Just get here.”

Isaac was on the next plane to the States.

~*~

Malia Tate shivered as she waited for Braedon to organize her weapons.

“What is it?”

Malia shook her head. “Nothing.”

“Doesn’t look like nothing.” Braedon frowned, shoving a clip of bullets into the base of a handgun. “Looks like someone just walked over your grave.”

“How does that even make sense?” Malia looked at the hunter with derision. “Let’s just get this done.”

~*~

Kira Yukimura pulled her legs up on the front seat of her mother’s car, curling into a tight ball as though the position alone would ward off the chill that swept through her. His name was on her lips, almost demanding a voice, but she bit it back, keeping the ache that filled her body, settling in her bones, a secret.

Her mother—a kitsune for 900 years—would no longer understand the pull of a love as young and powerful as theirs. That piece of her had long ago turned to dust. She would be immune to any pleas that Kira might attempt.

Which was unfortunate, since Kira knew she had to return. The fox could wait. Would _have to_ wait. Because she was almost certain that what she felt shimmer through her heart had been Scott’s call—his own plea—for his pack to return.

~*~

Lydia knew. She was the only one who’d felt his death screaming inside her. She’d felt his loss fill her with unimaginable emptiness. And she felt his call summoning her.

Pleading with her to _hear him_. To know what he needed.

She knew.

And she was powerless to do anything but lay still and blink, Theo’s claws having effectively trapped her inside her own mind. Only her mother saw the tear that slipped from the corner of her eye as Lydia’s mind whispered Scott’s name.

~*~

Liam Dunbar felt nothing but helpless loss. Nothing but guilt. Sorrow. Regret.

As the Hellhound pulled Hayden’s lifeless body from his arms, he felt his gut clench, his heart stutter, a far-away cry shaking something inside him.

But it was ignored.

Because he knew he’d caused it.

~*~

Stiles Stilinski shuddered, his whole being feeling both drained of energy and charged by lightning at once. For a moment his vision wavered, tunneling to a pinpoint of perception before widening once more and allowing him to breathe, his trembling fingers intertwining with his father’s lax ones.

He wrote it off to adrenaline, to finding his wounded father just in time, to the rush of summoning the ambulance and getting to the hospital before he even knew if his father would live.

He wrote it off to weeks of stress and feeling as though he’d been walking on hot coals, not knowing who to trust. He wrote it off to the insanity that was simply living in Beacon Fucking Hills. He wrote it off to fear and exhaustion and weakness.

He didn’t let himself think about his best friend. He ignored the nagging voice that had said, “You can’t help Scott _and_ save your dad’s life.”

He ignored the fact that by that statement alone, Scott needed him.

Because Scott hadn’t trusted him. Scott believed _Theo_ over him. So screw him. And screw whatever cold feeling settled around his heart.

Scott would be fine.

* * *

Melissa couldn’t lift him.

He wasn’t a big kid but he was all muscle and there was only so far adrenaline would take her.

“Mason.” She grabbed the kid’s attention, remembering how he’d stayed with her as Hayden was dying, remembering how he’d tried so hard to be a good friend to Liam. “I need you one more time, okay? And then you can go home.”

Mason hadn’t torn his dark eyes from Scott’s face, the wheezing breaths slipping between Scott’s now-human lips arresting his attention. Melissa sympathized, but she also needed to get her very-wounded son out of this place right the hell now.

“Mason!” His head snapped around as her tone shifted from soft to commanding. “I need you to help me get him to the car. Can you do that?”

“He…he was dead. I checked him. I checked his pulse.”

Melissa reached across Scott and laid her hand on Mason’s shoulder, intimately familiar with the shock that set in after someone witnessed a traumatic event. Though, typically, it was after a loss of someone rather than what Mason had seen.

“I know, honey. You were amazing. I just need your help one more time.”

Mason swallowed, dark eyes flicking from her face to Scott’s.

“Is…he’s alive, right? I mean, that was just…well, kinda awesome, actually.”

“He’s alive, but he’s hurt—“

“Mom?” Scott’s voice ripped through the air, though it held no more strength than a tear.

“Hey,” Melissa, turned, crouching over her son and laying her hand against the side of his face. “I’m here.”

“Theo,” Scott managed, unable to keep his eyes open. There was something in his voice. Something desperate.

“He’s gone, sweetheart,” Melissa promised, rage unexpectedly shooting through her.

Scott didn’t respond and Melissa felt herself tremble with worry. She couldn’t call an ambulance; there was no way she could explain his surviving such wounds—and when he healed?

No, it was on her.

“Mason,” she grabbed the younger boy’s attention once more. “Will you help me?”

“Yeah. Yes,” Mason nodded rapidly, shifting to a crouch so that he could help Melissa lift Scott’s head and shoulders from the floor.

Once they got him upright, Scott came around enough to realize that he was being moved. He pushed weakly to his feet, then hung from their shoulders as they maneuvered around the wreckage of the library, through the empty building and to Melissa’s car. Mason helped her ease Scott into the backseat, then straightened, wiping the young wolf’s blood from his hands to his jeans.

“What about…I mean, where will you go?”

“I’ve got it from here,” Melissa promised. “Go find Liam. He’s going to need you.”

“Liam…Liam _did this_ ,” Mason whispered.

Melissa frowned, thinking of Scott’s choked, _Theo_.

“Liam needs a friend right now, Mason.” Melissa repeated. “Go find him. And,” she paused before sliding behind the wheel, “thank you.”

Mason nodded jerkily, watching as she drove away from the high school. She gave a brief thought to the mess that had been left behind—the amount of her son’s blood smeared on the floor and splattered across the stairs, chairs, and tables. But like so many other grisly scenes in and around Beacon Hills, Melissa was fairly certain this latest Unexplained Event would be somehow written off and filed away as had so many others.

Scott was quiet on the ride to their home. She wasn’t sure he was completely conscious until she opened the back door and once more laid her hand against his cheek.

“Scott?”

He nodded, not opening his eyes, and rolled carefully to a seated position. Watching as he pressed his hands flat against the seat on either side of him, Melissa found herself wondering if he knew what had happened to him tonight.

The _extent_ of it.

She reached for his arm, taking an involuntary breath as she felt the reassuring heat of his skin, the thrum of life beneath her fingers once more, and gently pulled him toward the open door. He managed to extricate himself from the car, leaning against the cool metal doorframe to gain his balance, and accepted her support as she drew his arm across her shoulder.

The stairs were tricky; when they finally reached his room and he sat propped up on his bed, Melissa took a breath.

“I need to clean you up,” she said.

“It’s fine,” Scott replied, his voice breathy, listless.

“It’s not,” she shook her head. “I don’t care if you’re a werewolf with…with healing abilities.” She heard her voice tremble, knew her heart had changed pace because he lifted his gaze slightly to meet hers. “You…you _died_ tonight, honey. And I need to clean you up.”

The emptiness in his eyes twisted and turned and suddenly Melissa saw something she never wanted to see again: fear. In her son’s eyes. True, honest, unadulterated fear.

And the kicker was…it wasn’t for himself.

“Is…is Liam okay?”

Melissa sank down on the edge of his bed, covering her face with her hands.

“He’s fine,” she whispered. “He nearly killed you…but he’s fine.”

“It wasn’t Liam…it was…Theo,” Scott began, but couldn’t continue, his voice trapped as he swallowed whatever emotion choked him.

Melissa didn’t care if she ever heard that name again. That bastard had nearly taken her son from her. He deserved no mercy.

Without another word, she went to Scott’s bathroom, ignoring the evidence of teenaged boy scattered around her in the piles of dirty clothes, wet towels and— _oh, God, were those condom wrappers in the trash_? She grabbed clean towels, wet some cloths with hot water, and pulled a clean set of clothes from Scott’s dresser before she returned to his bed.

Scott sat unmoving, his brown eyes— _her_ eyes—fixed on nothing, his expression tragic.

As the mother of the boy before her, Melissa wanted to wrap him in a blanket, and hold him tight enough that all his broken pieces fit back together.

As the mother of the werewolf—the _leader_ she knew him to be—she resisted the urge to fix his spirit, knowing he had to have the strength to fix himself or he’d be lost forever.

As the nurse, she knew that even werewolf healing abilities needed help.

“C’mon,” she said quietly. “Off with what’s left of that shirt.”

He could barely lift his arms; she had to clamp down hard on the gut-wrenching reaction to seeing her son in pain. Uttering nonsensical, soothing words as she would to any patient as torn up as Scott, she eased him out of his shirt and helped him lie back against the pillows. As he closed his eyes, tight, breathing rapidly through both physical and emotional pain, she gently cleaned the blood from the horribly deep gashes and lacerations that littered his chest. She could see the gouge marks where claws had sunk in, perforating his heart, his lungs.

The fact that he lay breathing before her was not just remarkable in the supernatural sense, it was a _miracle_. She didn’t know what extent the power of being a True Alpha had over life and death, but she was fairly certain her son was not supposed to be lying here now, staring up at her with stricken, tear-filled eyes.

Which meant, he had a purpose.

Which meant, he would be hurt again.

Which meant, she could still lose him.

“I lost, Mom.” His voice was shredded, devoid of the life and light and energy that embodied the boy she’d raised.

“Every leader suffers loss,” she replied softly, easing a clean shirt over the large gauze bandaged she’d taped to his chest. “Sometimes…more than you think is bearable.”

“But this time,” his breath hitched and she laid a hand over the bandage, willing it to heal, “I lost everyone.”

 _Everyone_.

When Scott was five years old, two life-changing things happened to him: he was diagnosed with asthma and he met Stiles Stilinski. One event established limits, the other opened doors. Since then, Melissa had both worried that at any moment her son would stop breathing and been reassured that no matter what he’d have someone on his side.

The two boys had been inseparable from day one, something their parents had observed with both amusement and relief. They were two sides of the same coin.

And tonight, broken and bleeding before her, when Scott said _everyone_ , she heard _Stiles_.

“You’ll get them back. You have to.”

Scott looked at her again; his eyes were so young she caught her breath. He was an Alpha. Their leader. It was his job to face the evils of the world, to protect his pack.

But he was also her son. Her _child_. Her responsibility. And he was young and afraid and in pain. In _so much_ pain. She may not be able to hear his heartbeat or smell his fear, but she felt his pain as keenly as if it were her own.

“Why would they come back?” The tears were at the edge of his voice.

She remembered his devastation when Stiles had been consumed by the nogitsune. The way he’d melted into her with grief when Alison had died.

“Because you’re their leader. And even when a leader thinks they have nothing left to give, there’s still one thing.” She reached out and gently brushed Scott’s dark hair from his forehead, watching as his heavy eyes closed beneath the caress. “Hope. Give them hope.”


	2. Chapter 2

It was still dark when Scott opened his eyes.

He didn’t register having fallen asleep; it was simply a strange transition of time. His mother was no longer next to him, but he could smell the lingering scent of her: shampoo and laundry soap and sadness and anger.

She hadn’t been gone long.

His phone buzzed against the mattress, drawing his attention. He lifted the screen to see a text from his mother. She was at the hospital. Stiles’ father was hurt. She wasn’t sure how bad. She asked him to come as soon as he’d healed.

Scott groaned softly, closing his eyes and letting his hand fall limply next to him on the bed.

“Stiles,” he whispered.

 _Theo_. The chimera spent weeks driving wedges between Scott and his pack. Poisoning Scott with inhaled wolfsbane. Weakening them all from the inside out. Theo had taken everything from him—his trust, his friends, his confidence, his life—and the worst part about it all was that Scott had let him.

He had to get to Stiles.

Rolling gingerly to his side and swinging his feet slowly off the edge of the bed, Scott tried very, _very_ hard not to think. He was weak, his legs trembling as they took his weight. He ignored the sounds coalescing around him—plumbing, the hum of electricity, someone on their phone as they drove by the house, his own rasping breath, his heartbeat—and staggered weakly to his bathroom.

His stomach rolled when he caught his own reflection in the mirror. He had no color, save the dark smudges beneath his eyes. Blood his mother hadn’t been able to remove stained his cheeks and crusted his eyebrows. It took him several minutes of breathing and staring at nothing to quell the nausea.

He stripped, leaving the ruined clothes—the new T-shirt his mother had provided him was now soaked through with blood—in a pile on the floor and dropped the gauze pad she’d used into the trash. He stepped beneath the noise-cancelling water of his shower and tried to breathe.

His hands shook as he sluiced the dried blood from his chest and face, washed it from his hair. The open wounds—gouges and slashes from two sets of claws—gaping on his chest stung with the spray of water and he was forced to rest weakly against the shower wall until he was sure he wouldn’t collapse.

Finally clean, his lower half wrapped in a towel, Scott leaned against his sink once more staring at his own reflection. He remembered. He could still taste the blood in his mouth, feel the ferocity of Liam’s slashes, the rage that built up inside of him demanding release. He had caged his wolf, clamping down on his control to such an extent he couldn’t even bring himself to strike back and push Liam away.

His pain was worth Liam’s life.

Until Theo was there, claws digging deep, piercing his heart, wrecking him from the inside. His wolf had howled in agony, flexing and thrashing inside him.

He remembered dying. He remembered the way reality collapsed around the edges, his wolf clinging to the precipice of life as its human anchor disintegrated.

He wasn’t sure how his mother had brought him back. He shouldn’t be here. He had _died_. His wolf was curled up inside of him, licking its wounds, unwilling to hurt like that again.

And there was nothing anchoring him anymore.

No pack, no friends, no purpose. He was adrift and in pain and weaker than he’d ever been before the bite.

He willed the wolf to rise, needing to heal, needing the raw power to move him forward. His vision flashed red—at least Theo hadn’t taken that from him—but it flickered, the light dying before he could grab hold. His fangs made a sluggish appearance and he couldn’t bring his claws forward. Growling—a very _human_ sound of frustration—he impotently shook the sink.

Giving in, he opened the medicine cabinet, knowing he would find more gauze. His mother was consistently prepared for everything except losing him, it seemed. His body trembled as he dressed, the weakness in his limbs pervasive. He felt a tightness in his chest that was frighteningly familiar, but resisted seeking out his inhaler.

He couldn’t trust that.

He couldn’t _need_ that.

Grabbing his helmet, Scott turned and made it as far as the hallway before his body quit around him. His vision stretched and folded, sending him careening inelegantly against the wall. He fought to keep his feet beneath him, certain that if he could just get outside, get to the fresh air, he would shake off this weakness.

He managed one more step before the world tipped sideways and sent him thudding to the ground, falling through the earth and into darkness, his breath rasping against his distended fangs.

The wolf was waiting for him in the dark, its eyes red and glowing with accusations. The wolf was a separate being, with needs and urges that he must control, but somehow also a part of him. Responding to his call, synergistic in its power.

Until he betrayed it. Until he nearly let it die. Until he died around it.

The animal circled him, shoulders rolling, lip bouncing up in a snarl, red eyes steady and calculating. He needed it. Called it to him. _Willed_ it to him. But it simply stalked and stared. Until he was able to control it once more there would be no synergy. No heady rush of power.

No healing.

“Please,” he whispered, hearing the _need_ in his voice, feeling the _want_ tremble through him.

The wolf stared. And then it opened its mouth and called his name.

“Scott.”

Scott gasped, jerking awake and back into the world. He was lying on the floor of his hallway, his chest on fire, his breath wheezing audibly. A hand rested on his shoulder and Scott immediately scented for danger, grateful he still had at least that heightened sense. The hand helped him roll to his side and another joined it to aid him in sitting up, slouched against the wall.

“Parrish?” He barely recognized his own voice.

Deputy Jordan Parrish was crouched next to him, hazel eyes searching his face for some sort of reassurance or reasoning. Sunlight painted the side of his face and spilled across his shoulders and over the floorboard around him.

“Are you okay?” Parrish asked. He had yet to release Scott’s shoulder. “You’re bleeding.”

Scott looked down at his chest. A spot of blood the size of a silver dollar had soaked through and he could feel the wetness beneath spreading.

“I’m fine,” he exhaled the lie, grateful that Parrish couldn’t pick up on his heartbeat. At least…he didn’t think he could. They weren’t really sure what Parrish was capable of at this point. “Wait, why are you here?” Fear shot a burst of adrenalin through Scott’s system. “Is the sheriff—“

“He’s fine,” Parrish reassured him. “Or, well, he’s going to be fine. I think. They’re working on him at any rate. But that’s not why I’m here.”

Scott closed his eyes and tried to push his feet beneath him, feeling as though he didn’t want to be on the ground to take in Parrish’s next words. The effort was clumsy and uncoordinated and he would never have made it upright had it not been for the deputy’s strong grip. Parrish held onto him with both hands and though the rebellious part of Scott wanted to push away, the rational part of him really didn’t want to end up on the floor again.

“Lydia’s hurt,” Parrish stated once Scott could open his eyes.

“What?” Scott’s brows met across the bridge of his nose. “How? When?”

Parrish shook his head. “I found her…,” he frowned and stepped cautiously away from Scott, eyeing the teen to make sure Scott had his balance. “I don’t know how. It was like…like I could hear her or something.”

“Hear her?” Scott kept one hand braced against the wall, watching the deputy.

“I can’t explain it. I just heard her and found her in these tunnels connected to the basement of the hospital. She was cold—really, really cold—and practically catatonic.”

Scott swallowed, thinking, searching his memory for what Theo had said, how Lydia fit into his scheme.

“Were there, um…cuts? On the back of her neck?” Scott gestured to his neck as he spoke.

“Maybe, I don’t know,” Parrish shook his head helplessly. “Her mom is with her, but…I just thought you needed to be there.”

Scott tilted his head. “Why?”

Parrish shrugged, his hazel eyes free of guile. “You’re her Alpha, right?”

Scott looked down. “Right.”

“You…why aren’t you…uh, healing?”

Scott stepped away from the wall, feeling a little stronger. He pulled his jacket close, hiding his wounded chest. “Can you give me a ride?”

He wasn’t sure he’d make it on his bike.

“Sure,” Parrish nodded, his frown of concern back in place as he rested his hand lightly on Scott’s bicep, maneuvering them both down the stairs and out into the early morning air. “What the hell is going on around here?”

As they got into Parrish’s squad car, Scott exhaled, feeling more awake and alive once he was outside and able to breathe a bit more easily. “It’s the chimeras. Theo,” he spat the name. “He’s trying to make his own pack.”

“Why?”

Scott closed his eyes and rested his head against the cool window. “I don’t know.”

“Probably ought to figure that out soon, yeah?” Parrish’s voice was low, almost menacing, and Scott felt his wolf flinch in reaction.

The hospital was chaos, but Scott was used to that. It was oddly comforting in a way to step into the melee and surround himself with the familiar noises of pain and healing. Scott immediately sought out his mother, finding her standing outside of a patient room talking to a doctor he recognized as Liam’s father…and Stiles.

Parrish hadn’t followed him inside and suddenly Scott felt rather frighteningly alone as he stared down the hall at his best friend. He hadn’t seen Stiles since two nights before when they’d stood in the rain outside of Deaton’s office, facing off about what Theo had allowed Scott to believe—that Stiles had intentionally killed someone.

He’d known it wasn’t true— _couldn’t_ _be_ true. He _knew_ Stiles. Better than anyone. Better in some ways than himself.

Theo had preyed on his loneliness, his memories of the nogitsune, of how the creature wearing Stiles’ face had stabbed him through with a sword and sucked all of the pain from his body leaving him hollow and weak. He’d allowed Theo to plant seeds of doubt and as he stared down the hallway at Stiles—seeing how wrecked his friend looked after a night of worry—he was ashamed of himself for allowing the seeds to take root.

He _knew_ Stiles. He knew it could never be true. And yet…yet, he’d reacted so poorly, not allowing Stiles to tell him the whole story, willing to believe the worst. His behavior made him sick.

It didn’t matter that _everyone_ had believed Theo’s lies at one point—even Stiles. It didn’t matter that Theo had gotten to all of them. All that mattered to Scott now was that he hadn’t trusted Stiles and that loss of trust was breaking him. Breaking _them_.

In that moment, Stiles looked up—perhaps sensing Scott’s gaze—and the look of fury that swept his features was so reminiscent of the nogitsune that Scott backed up a step. Before Dr. Dunbar or Melissa could stop him, Stiles rushed the length of the hall separating them and grabbed hold of Scott’s jacket, shaking him roughly.

“Where _were_ you, huh?” Stiles demanded.

The force of his charge set Scott off-balance and he tumbled backwards, hitting the floor and dragging Stiles with him. Crouched over his friend, Stiles shook Scott again, slamming his shoulders and the back of his head against the floor as Scott did nothing but cling weakly to Stiles’ wrists.

“He came after my dad, you son of a bitch,” Stiles growled. “He almost _killed_ him. So _where were you_?!”

Scott’s ears were ringing, his breath a panicked gasp. Stiles’ clenched fists pressed painfully against his wounded chest.

“Whoa! Whoa! Hey!”

He heard and felt the pounding feet and call of adult voices headed their way. As someone wrapped strong arms around Stiles and pulled him away, another grasped Scott beneath his arms and lifted him to his feet. The world spun dizzily around him and Scott simply dragged in air, not able to meet Stiles’ eyes.

“That is _enough_.” Melissa stood between them, arms outstretched like a ref in a boxing match. “What the hell is wrong with you boys?”

“Why don’t you ask your son?” Stiles snarled, and Scott looked up at him.

“I’m sorry,” Scott started, watching as Stiles shrugged out of the grip that had held him back. “Stiles, I’m sorry about your dad.”

“Theo had one of his chimera douchebags _stab_ him, Scott. And you _trusted_ him!”

Scott swallowed, not pointing out that Stiles had trusted Theo at one point, too. He simply nodded. “Is he going to be okay?” He looked toward his mother, noting that she was frowning at his chest.

“It’s going to take some time, but yes, he’s going to be fine,” she replied.

“No thanks to you,” Stiles practically growled.

Scott could smell the anger and fear rolling off his friend. Stiles’ eyes were blood-shot and red-rimmed, his hair wild from where Scott knew he’d been pulling on it all night in worry, his face pale and drawn. He was exhausted and scared and Scott hurt for him. For what he’d done to him.

“Stiles…,” he stepped away from his mother’s reaching hand. “Your dad wasn’t the only one hurt last night.”

Stiles snorted derisively. “You’ll heal.”

Melissa whipped her head around at that, but Scott simply pulled his jacket closer to hide the growing blood stain.

“I didn’t mean me.” He darted his eyes to his mom. “Can he leave for a minute? Will the sheriff--?”

“He’s sleeping,” Melissa said. “It’ll take a few hours for him to come around after the surgery. But, Scott, you aren’t—“

“I’m fine,” Scott cut her off. He glanced at Stiles. “Come on.”

“Where?” Stiles snapped.

Scott leveled his eyes on his friend, the person he knew better than himself for most of his life, and for a brief moment allowed the pain and exhaustion and fear he was keeping a tight hold on rise to the surface. Stiles blinked in response but didn’t back down.

“Lydia.”

Scott knew he didn’t have to say anything else. He turned and headed to the elevator, Stiles on his heels. As the doors closed behind them, Scott held himself still, resisting the almost overpowering urge to sink back against the wall and close his eyes. Stiles was watching him, eyes narrowed, but not in concern.

Stiles was angry. Hurt. Scott couldn’t blame him. When his best friend had needed him most, Scott hadn’t been there—hadn’t trusted him. He closed his eyes briefly against that knowledge, flinching when he saw the wolf waiting behind his closed lids, red eyes steady and staring.

The elevator opened and Stiles was out first, Scott following slowly. They found Lydia’s room easily; her mother’s voice led them right to her. Stiles slipped inside the room while Scott lingered on the other side of the window, staring through. He didn’t need to get close to sense Lydia’s pain and confusion. She was practically screaming at him with her wide-eyed stare into nothing.

Stiles took her hand, his own visibly trembling, and sank slowly down to the chair next to her bed. Before he had a chance to say anything, however, Natalie Martin stormed in, accused him of being part of the reason this was happening to her daughter and practically threw him from the room. Before she could close the door on them, though, Scott stepped forward.

“Wait!”

Natalie closed her mouth, her eyes darting to his chest where the stain of red was growing wider against the white of his shirt.

“Just…please, can you check…? Are there cuts? On the back of her neck, here?” Scott indicated on his own neck as he’d done with Parrish.

Stepping cautiously away from the door, Natalie moved to Lydia’s bed, gently turning her daughter’s head to the side. Scott could see the claw marks from where he was standing. Natalie covered her mouth, then moved back over to the door and closed it without looking at them again.

“Theo,” Scott growled, feeling his wolf stir slightly.

“How did you know?” Stiles demanded.

“Parrish found m—er, told me,” Scott replied, staring at Lydia’s unresponsive expression through the window…until Natalie pulled the curtain closed. “Said he found her in the tunnels below the hospital—connected to the basement.”

“What else was there?” Stiles pressed.

“He didn’t say.”

“I’m gonna find out,” Stiles declared.

“What? Why?” Scott blinked in surprise.

“Because, man, Theo lied to us—to _all of us_ —and he hurt Lydia and he’s up to something, I can just feel it, okay? I _feel_ it.” Stiles was shifting his stance, one hand on his hip, the other wiping across his mouth and then up through his hair, unable to keep still. Scott felt his friend’s energy thrumming around them, practically a living thing. “If he could do this—“ he gestured to Lydia’s room, “…I mean, and if he could get to my dad…who knows what else he could have done, huh?”

Scott swallowed, unable to force the words through his suddenly numb lips. _I died, Stiles. Theo killed me_.

“So, I’m going to find out what the hell she was doing down there—what _he_ was doing there—and…I don’t know…figure out some incredibly genius and not at all suicidal way to stop him.”

Without another word, Stiles turned toward where they both knew the stairs to the basement were located.

Scott followed, instinctively. It didn’t matter to him if Stiles asked or not, wanted him there or not. Theo had effectively ripped his world apart and there was no way in hell Stiles was going anywhere Theo had been without him. He kept his eyes focused on Stiles, ignoring the way the shadows seemed to groan and gather in the periphery of his vision. Ignoring the way his wolf snarled inside him, wounded and afraid.

The light switch at the top of the basement stairs was a dud—that or the bulb was out. Stiles used the flashlight on his phone and led the way down from the lower level of the hospital to the building’s basement—the one place within the building that in all their battles, in all his history, Scott had never been.

Crossing the quiet of the dark basement, their path lit only by Stiles’ cell phone flashlight, Scott had to force himself to breathe calmly. The shadows were harder to ignore when there were so many. They seemed to reach for him, his determined steps threading through their grasping fingers.

It was as though the darkness yearned for him.

When they reached the far side of the basement, Scott saw the big metal door that led to the tunnels was opened a crack. Stiles pushed against it, grunting with the effort, but got nowhere. He glanced back at Scott who nodded once and replaced him against the cold metal. The moment he began pushing, Scott could tell something had been shoved against the other side to keep it from opening fully.

Any other time, Scott would have been able to exert his enhanced werewolf strength and shove the blockage free, but today his arms trembled. He took a short break, grabbed a breath and pushed again, his boots slipping against the dusty cement.

“Dude,” Stiles muttered, and Scott honestly couldn’t tell if it was his worried ‘dude’ or his irritated ‘dude’, he was that out of sync.

“I’m trying,” Scott shot back, dismayed to hear the tightness in his voice betraying the wheeze of breath. “It’s stuck.”

“Usually not a problem,” Stiles mentioned.

Scott felt his lips pull up in a snarl and he shoved once more, the motion tearing at the fragile skin currently holding his chest together. He slipped down to one knee, panting, his forehead resting against the cool metal of the door, one hand unconsciously pressed against his aching chest. The weakness shuddered through him, pissing him off and frightening him in equal measure.

“Here,” Stiles said softly, moving up next to him. “Together.”

Something had changed in his friend’s voice. Something that gave Scott a sliver of hope that maybe he hadn’t fully destroyed them.

He pushed to his feet and glanced at Stiles over his shoulder, nodding as his friend pressed his shoulder to the door. On a three count they shoved once, twice, and by the third the door was open enough they could slip through.

Scott joined his cell flashlight to Stiles’ and the cool blue hue revealed an overturned locker jammed between the door and the wall, evidence of claws cutting through the metal.

“Okay, so _some_ one had a weretantrum down here,” Stiles murmured, shining his light across the destroyed locker then down one direction of the hall then over to the other.

Pipes ran along one wall and lined the ceiling. Yellowed lights flickered intermittently, the low hum of electricity audible even to human ears. There was a dank, slightly mildew-laden smell to the place, though Scott could pick up no standing water or leaking pipes. Stiles started to step over the downed locker when Scott picked up a scent.

“Wait,” he reached out, grabbing Stiles’ arm and halting him. “Not that way.”

“What is it?”

Scott tilted his head, unsure. He moved away from the locker and the door, following the invisible scent trail further down the tunnels, away from the basement door. Stiles followed, silently. As they walked, Scott focused on moving forward, on finding something, on making this all _mean something_ and the shadows seemed to fade.

He lost track of how far they’d come, so captivated was he by the scent. It was familiar, nauseatingly so, but he couldn’t remember where he’d—

 _Kanima_.

The hiss came from above and Scott dropped into a fighting crouch, his wolf surging forward on instinct alone. His claws hinted at release, the world around him tinged slightly red even as Stiles cried out and bounced heavily off of the opposite wall.

“Stiles, get out of here!” Scott bellowed.

“Shit, Scott I think it’s Tracy,” Stiles gasped, holding his left arm. “And…I can’t move my arm. Perfect.”

The dark-haired girl who had once been Tracy dropped between them from the pipes above, her alien eyes darting from Scott to Stiles, her claws out, venom dripping from her teeth. Scott dodged a dangerous swipe, forgetting for a moment that his body was weakened, so surprised was he by her appearance. She turned from him, lunging once more for Stiles and Scott saw red.

Full-on, Alpha _red_.

Fangs filled his mouth, claws flicked free, and he grabbed her, throwing her slight body away from Stiles with a two-handed grip. Turning to face his friend, he growled low and demanding, “Run!”

Stiles didn’t hesitate; he took off. Unfortunately, _away_ from the door.

Scott cursed and turned to catch Tracy as the chimera launched herself at him. He rotated and thrust her with every ounce of strength he could summon against the pipes that lined the wall, breaking one and sending a hiss of steam directly in the chimera’s face. Tracy shrieked and curled in on herself, no longer a threat. Scott took off after Stiles.

The burst of Alpha-laced adrenalin seemed to be recharging him. He could feel the wolf begin to uncoil, stretching claws and licking fangs, ready for the hunt. It was easy to track Stiles through the musty, closed-in smell of the tunnels. But suddenly he caught something new.

Blood. Pain. Misery. Glee. Rage. Insanity.

They blended and churned and slammed into Scott with such a force he stumbled. The tunnel turned slightly and he found himself at the edge of a small room, roughly the size of the Hale vault. From a cursory glance, Scott could see that it had once been a janitor’s room, complete with mop bucket and cleaning supplies. He staggered to a halt, claws raking against the cement doorway as he searched the dimly-lit room for the source of the strongest emotion: _fear_.

“Stiles?” His voice sounded harsh and hoarse against the quiet of the underground room.

“He can’t come out and play right now,” sing-songed a reply.

Electricity snapped and sizzled from an unidentified source to dance across the low ceiling of the small room, bursting the nearest yellow bulb and sending sparks showering down the shadow of a person twice as big as Scott.

Another chimera.

Theo had collected them—re-animated them—and was turning them loose on Scott and Stiles.

“Where is he?” Scott felt the hair along his neck stand on end, his ears shifting, his body welcoming the wolf’s presence.

“He’s…nearby,” the voice returned, moving around Scott in the near-darkness. Scott could see the figure’s movement with his heightened vision, but couldn’t quite make out the features. “I forgot how fragile people are.”

“Leave him out of this,” Scott demanded, his words molding around a mouth full of fangs.

“Oh, I don’t think we will.”

Electricity cracked again and this time Scott could tell it emanated _from_ the figure currently circling him. He blinked against the sudden illumination, but saw in that flash that Stiles was across the room, lying in a crumpled heap, blood smeared across one side of his face. If he hadn’t been able to hear his friend’s heartbeat, he would have thought they’d killed him.

He fought to stay calm, to keep his hands steady, keep the wolf close.

“He’s as much a part of this as you are.”

“Part of what?” Scott demanded, trying to evaluate exactly how to incapacitate someone exuding electricity.

“He’s pack, Scott,” came another voice—one Scott knew all-too well—from the darkness. “More importantly, he’s _your_ pack.”

“Theo,” Scott growled.

“You should have stayed dead.”

Scott tracked the movement of the lightning dude, watching as the chimera’s power surged to illuminate the remaining two bulbs in the room and revealing that only he, Theo, Scott, and Stiles were present. He kept his breaths as measured as possible, watching as Theo’s claws emerged, his eyes flaring gold.

“You turned me away,” Theo continued. “Because I wasn’t a _real_ werewolf.”

“You’re still not,” Scott bit out.

Stiles was awake; Scott felt him before he saw him. The energy in the room shifted as though the universe bent around the teen. Usually the opposite of stealth, Stiles was on his feet, moving in the shelter of shadows. They seemed to embrace him, his mania, his restlessness. They wrapped around him and cloaked him until he was one of them.

The chimeras focused on Scott and Stiles was silent and invisible for the first time in his life.

“I should be an _Alpha_!” Theo roared, eyes glowing, pulling Scott’s wavering focus back to the danger before him. “I helped them release it because I could fight it as an Alpha.”

“You couldn’t take my power,” Scott rumbled, rolling his shoulders, crouching low, filing Theo’s reference to releasing something away to examine later. Right now, _Theo_ was the enemy, not some mysterious creature he wanted to face in a supernatural cage match. “You’ll _never_ take my power.”

“We’ll see about that,” Theo sneered, an ugly thing filled with fangs and hate.

His electric chimera stepped forward, its intent to shock Scott into non-wolf submission clear, when a burst of white foam blasted it out of nowhere, sending the chimera careening against the wall, screaming in pain. Lightning surged, ricocheting across the room, and Scott felt the power snapping around him.

 _Stiles_.

As though on cue, he sensed Stiles rush forward, something gripped in one hand—the other hanging useless at his side, thanks to the paralyzing agent in the kanima’s sting—charging at the chimera as Theo launched himself at Scott. Barely catching the would-be werewolf, Scott was able to keep Theo’s claws from his throat, but was thrown harshly back against the wall, the side of his head bouncing forward from the impact, the smell of blood immediately flooding his senses.

Scott roared, but it was weak, thin, and Theo sensed it.

He saw the chimera’s lips curl up in a grin and lost the ability to track Stiles’ progress with the lightning chimera that seemed intent on electrocuting the lot of them. Theo brought his knee forward, slamming it against Scott’s abdomen, then flexing his claws once more, trying to reach flesh.

“You’re over,” Theo snarled. “Done. _I’m_ the Alpha now.”

“Your eyes say different,” Scott managed, shoving back against Theo with all his might.

Theo changed tactics, collapsing his elbows and body-slamming Scott against the wall. The pain from his wounded chest surged up with the contact and sent his wolf into a tailspin. Scott felt his humanity sweep the wounded wolf aside and suddenly he was a seventeen-year-old kid, staring into the gold eyes of a werewolf. Theo pressed his advantage, closing his grip around Scott’s throat, his claws scraping against Scott’s neck.

Breath was being wrung from him. Scott felt his knees trembling, his heart skipping beats, his wolf retreating. He couldn’t pull in air, his lips were going numb, when suddenly Theo was jerked away, releasing him. Scott’s knees buckled and he went to the ground, staring up in breathless surprise at the sight of Stiles standing next to Theo, a fire extinguisher raised over his shoulder like a baseball bat, blood painting one side of his face a garish red.

In the hall outside of the room, Scott could see the other chimera curled in a smoking, charred heap. His enhanced hearing picked up more heartbeats, three—no, four—all rapid, and the scent of rage choked the hallway that led to the small room. Theo turned from Scott, roaring, and before Stiles could bring the extinguisher down, Theo swung, swiping his claws across Stiles’ chest viciously, sending the teen spiraling away with a shout of pain.

The smell of Stiles’ blood was like dropping a lit match in a pool of gasoline. Scott shot to his feet like a bullet, all sense of weakness and pain forgotten, his wolf surging forward with an ear-splitting howl.

Without consciously recognizing it, he called for help, _needing_ his pack to hear him.

But he was alone in this fight. In this moment. And his friend was hurt.

In seconds, Scott went from human to full-wolf, claws out, fangs bared, eyes alight with rage and power. Slamming his claws into Theo’s shoulders, he shoved the chimera backwards, crashing him against the opposite wall hard enough to crack the plaster. Theo growled, swiping in retaliation at Scott and catching him across the cheek and ear, the taste of blood flooding Scott’s mouth.

Roaring, Scott twisted, bracing against Theo as he ran up the wall and used his momentum to flip his body around, thrusting Theo into the hall next to his damaged chimera. In a desperate gamble to regroup, Scott grabbed the edge of the steel door to the room and banged it shut, keeping the maverick chimera and his rapidly growing pack out of the room. Still fueled by wolf-enhanced adrenalin, Scott grabbed one of the heavy metal shelves against the wall and slammed it down and sideways, bottles and buckets falling free and bouncing off the cement floor, blocking the door and keeping Theo away from them.

For just a moment everything was still save the slam of his heartbeat, the rasp of his breath, and Scott remembered. He remembered what it felt like to be powerful, to be an _Alpha_. The wolf thrummed around him and inside of him and he pulled it close and held onto it, needing its healing, its strength.

Panting, he turned away from the door and in the flickering light of the yellowed bulbs saw Stiles sprawled behind him, face lax, shoulder and chest shiny with blood. The wolf retreated, slipping from Scott’s body like a knife pulled from flesh. His knees buckled and he hit the ground, shivering and weak, his whole frame trembling at the sight and smell of Stiles’ blood.

In rapid succession, unbidden memories crowded together behind Scott’s eyes: Stiles nearly drowning in the high school pool, Stiles’ bruised face after Gerard took a turn at him, Stiles scared and shivering on the MRI table, Stiles gaunt and pale trapped by the nogitsune, Stiles in pain….

Scott’s world was sideways and Stiles was in pain…and it was his fault. It was _all_ his fault.

Crawling forward, Scott reached for Stiles, needing to feel the life there to believe the heartbeat he was hearing. At his touch, Stiles’ head lolled to the side; his eyes were closed, lashes thick against pale skin. A soft moan slipped between Stiles’ lips and Scott leaned forward.

“Stiles?” Scott called, voice trembling.

Lacking any response, Scott shrugged out of his jacket and folded it up, lifting Stiles’ head and resting it on the material. Pulling in a shaky breath, he closed his eyes and tried to stave off panic by focusing on a thought… _one_ thought. Preferably one that would help his friend.

Stiles was human; he wouldn’t heal from a hit like that without help. Scott was the child of a nurse; he knew basic wound treatment.

“Apply pressure,” he said to himself, needing the balance of noise, the reassurance of memory.

He looked up and around. The room was devoid of anything remotely comforting and he had no idea what any of the chemicals on the remaining shelves were. There was a sink in the back of the room and Scott awkwardly pushed to his feet, stumbling toward it to see if the faucets worked. He felt the burn of relieved tears at the back of his eyes when water poured into the sink.

Thinking quickly, he pulled off his shirt, the gauze bandage beneath nearly saturated with blood from his struggle with Theo. Using the edge of his claws to tear the sleeves free, he separated the back, blood-free portion of the material from the ruined front, then wet the clean portion of the material. Returning to Stiles, he opened his friend’s flannel shirt with trembling hands, moving the material aside. The white T-shirt beneath was shredded and Scott easily pulled it free and away from the wound.

He exhaled a breath of relief upon seeing that Theo’s claws hadn’t managed to do much more than gouge Stiles’ skin, barely digging into the meat of his shoulder. Still, it was bleeding freely and had to hurt like a mother, Scott knew. He wiped down Stiles’ skin as best he could, wincing as Stiles moaned and flinched at the touch. Folding the wet cloth to cover the cuts, then layering the dry material on top of that, Scott pressed with as much force as he dared.

Stiles groaned, his legs shifting as though he wanted to push away from the pain.

“Sorry, man, I’m sorry,” Scott whispered.

The shadows were starting to play with him again, reminding him that not so long ago he’d been one of them, that he’d escaped without their permission. He blinked, willing them away, but they grew bolder, climbing Stiles’ legs, reaching for him.

Scott shot a frightened look over his shoulder, but nothing was there. Nothing had moved. It was all in his mind.

Using the sleeves from his shirt, Scott secured the make-shift bandage against Stiles’ shoulder and chest. He needed to get him out of there, back up to the hospital where someone could actually _help_. Someone like his mom who could literally bring people back to life.

But Theo and his chimera pack were outside that door. And Scott knew he couldn’t protect Stiles like this. He could barely keep himself alive like this. Slumping forward in defeat, Scott lay his hand on his friend’s sternum, craving the reassurance of Stiles’ familiar heartbeat.

“This should never have happened,” Scott told his friend quietly, unsure where the words were coming from, but too worn out to stop them. “I never should have trusted him. You were right, Stiles.” He sniffed, feeling the sting of tears burn bright trails down his cheeks. “You were right.”

Stiles shivered and Scott frowned. The cuts weren’t mortal, but they were bad enough. Capturing his lower lip with his teeth, Scott closed his eyes and pressed the palm of his hand flat against Stiles’ skin, concentrating on pulling the pain from his friend’s body. He blinked as he felt it seep into him, black lines snaking up his wrist, along his arm, shimmying toward his heart.

Groaning with the weight of it, Scott was forced to close his eyes once more as the world rocked around him from the force of Stiles’ pain mixed with his own. They bled together until he couldn’t discern where he ended and Stiles began. He arched his neck, lifting his face to the dimly lit ceiling as if to find solace there. The pain ripped into him in waves, stealing his breath and sending tears coursing down his cheeks.

It was more than the pain of the wounds Theo had inflicted; it was betrayal and disappointment and uncertainty and fear and loss and regret and frustration and Scott shook from it.

Stiles had carried so much— _so much_ —weight inside his fragile human frame it was a wonder he was still able to function. Scott pulled and pulled, folding every wave inside of him, absorbing it like a sponge until he was sobbing openly, no longer able to stifle his cries.

Scott’s body trembled, his chest bled, and he felt himself slipping back and away, unable to maintain contact with Stiles’ skin. The moment he crumbled to his side, he heard Stiles gasp, felt a sense of movement as his friend sat forward, and allowed himself a small smile of relief that his efforts had worked.

As Scott slipped into the darkness, he saw that his wolf had been waiting for him.

And he was terrified.

 


	3. Chapter 3

“Where is everyone?”

It was a fair question; the town actually _felt_ deserted. Derek glanced to the side at the younger wolf, a scowl at home on his features. Isaac had the grace to look chagrined.

“You’re right. You just got here, too. My bad,” Isaac pressed his lips together in a familiar pout that looked out of place with his beard.

“You missed a spot.” Derek arched an expressive eyebrow at Isaac’s jawline.

“Taking a page from your book,” Isaac lifted a shoulder, offering a small smile reminiscent of the kid he’d been before Derek had changed him with a bite.

Looking away with a roll of his eyes—and biting the inside of his cheek to keep from smiling—Derek replied, “You picked the wrong chapter.”

Isaac chuckled softly. “I missed you, too.”

“You hear from Chris?” Derek asked, shifting subjects to avoid focusing too long on actual sentiment—and choosing to ignore the fact that he’d lost the moment Chris Argent had become simply _Chris_ to him.

Isaac shook his head. Derek felt his beta’s restlessness as they sat in the non-descript car he’d appropriated on his journey west, lights off, staring across the empty high school parking lot.

“What day is it?” Isaac asked suddenly.

Derek tilted his head. “No clue.”

“Head to the hospital,” Isaac declared.

“You sick?”

It was Isaac’s turn to arch a brow and Derek had to admit the kid had read the Derek Hale Book of Expressions rather thoroughly.

“If it’s Saturday, that would explain why this place is deserted,” Isaac reasoned. “And if it’s not chaos here, then it’s usually—“

“At the hospital,” Derek agreed, his feeling of anxiety ratcheting up to a new level as he pulled from the parking lot and headed toward Beacon Hills Memorial.

If Isaac’s incessant tapping of fingers against the door was any indication, the younger wolf was anxious as well—and probably unconsciously absorbing Derek’s.

“How did you know Scott was…whatever?” Isaac asked.

“I heard him.”

“Heard him.” It wasn’t disbelief; it was recognition.

Derek looked over. “You, too?”

Isaac shrugged. “I’m not sure.”

“You heard him,” Derek confirmed softly, tightening his grip on the wheel.

“ _How_ , though?”

Derek lifted his shoulder. “He’s our Alpha.”

Isaac shot him a look of surprise. “You don’t need an Alpha,” he stated. “You’re…y’know. All…evolved or whatever.”

“What the hell is Argent teaching you over there?” Derek replied, brows folded over the bridge of his nose.

“Mostly how to be invisible,” Isaac said quietly, but without malice. “I’m pretty good at it.”

Derek waited a few beats, then said, “Scott is my Alpha by my choice. Same for you.”

“He’s my friend.”

Derek pulled into a parking spot at the hospital, already feeling the thrum of emotion spilling from the building. He glanced over at Isaac before opening his door.

“Either way, he needs us.”

He didn’t expect it to be such a shock, seeing Scott’s mom again after all this time away. He’d always liked the woman, admired her strength, her resilience. It was _her_ spirit that echoed back through Scott, spurring him to endure. She glanced up from where she leaned heavily against the desk at an empty nurse’s station, exhaustion in every line of her body, and caught sight of them. Her eyes shifted from Derek to Isaac, then back, and her expression seemed to fold in on itself.

“Where is he?” Derek asked, deciding to skip the preliminaries.

Tears pooled in her dark eyes and she looked again at Isaac, seemingly trying to grasp that they were standing before her.

“You look older,” she told the blond, her hand partially raised as though she meant to touch him, but forgot.

“That’s the point.” Isaac smiled shyly, reaching up to scratch at his bearded jaw. “Chris thought it might be better if I didn’t look like I needed a minder.”

“It’s a good look on you.” Melissa sniffed, one tear escaping and sending fear shooting through Derek.

“Melissa,” he nearly barked, feeling every hair on his body ripple with disquiet. It had been a while since he’d stayed human for this long.

When she looked back at him, he saw she was walking a fine line between terrified and devastated.

“I don’t know,” she managed. “I was helping take care of the Sheriff—“

“Stilinski’s hurt?” Isaac interrupted.

“—and Scott came in and told Stiles that Lydia was hurt,” Melissa continued. “She’s in some kind of catatonic state; the Deputy found her in the tunnels beneath the hospital. But I was just at her room and the boys aren’t there.”

Isaac moved forward around Derek and grasped Melissa by the elbows, guiding her gently to a chair. It took Derek a moment to shake off the surprise at the younger wolf’s care; then he remembered this woman had taken Isaac in, fed him, and cared for him when literally everyone in his life—including Derek—had turned their back on him. She was the closest thing Isaac had to a mother.

Melissa’s breath hitched and Derek saw that she was doing her best to hold in her tears, her body practically shaking from the effort, when she suddenly relaxed, her eyes closing on a slow exhale. Derek darted a glance at Isaac’s grip and saw thin, black lines receding up the younger wolf’s arms from where he pulled her exhaustion, aches, and pains from stress into himself.

“So, he _was_ here,” Derek repeated.

Melissa nodded, then blinked up at him, clarity returning as her aches receded. “Why are _you_ here?”

Derek frowned. Something like this was hard to put into words, especially for someone who didn’t spend a lot of time communicating. “I felt…I thought I felt….”

“Melissa,” Isaac filled in the awkward break in Derek’s stuttering explanation, “we thought we felt Scott die.”

Melissa nodded, pain flooding her face once more, but this wasn’t the kind Isaac could pull from her. “He did,” she revealed brokenly. “Theo killed him.”

“Who the hell is Theo?” Isaac practically growled. Derek felt his wolf crouch in reaction to the tone.

“He’s a werewolf. I think.” Melissa closed her eyes and shook her head. “There’s so much…,” she paused, pinching the bridge of her nose. “And he thinks he’s lost them.”

“Who?” Derek pressed, trying desperately to follow her threads of thought.

“Everyone,” Melissa looked up. “Malia, Kira, Liam…,” she looked past them to the door of a patient room, “Stiles.”

“Melissa,” Derek leaned close to her. “How is Scott alive?”

She blinked at him, surprise painting her expression. “I-I don’t know, I—. He just…. I wouldn’t let him—“

“Derek.”

The voice was like a whip crack and brought Derek immediately upright. He shot a look down the hall, Chris Argent’s rugged form a welcomed silhouette against the stark white of the hospital walls.

“Chris.”

They waited a beat and Chris’s blue eyes shifted to take in Isaac, a warm smile softening his edges for a brief moment before he looked back at Derek, a hunter once more.

“I’m not going to ask why you’re here, but I am glad to see you,” Chris exclaimed. “Because we have a problem. A very _big_ problem.”

“Bigger than Scott McCall dying and coming back to life?” Isaac asked, pushing to his feet from where he’d been crouched in front of Melissa.

Derek saw Chris blanch, his eyes darting to nothing for a moment before re-focusing. “Scott… _died_?”

“He was killed by some werewolf named Theo,” Derek explained.

Chris looked at Melissa and Derek followed his line of sight, watching as Isaac help her to her feet.

“Theo’s no werewolf,” Chris declared. “He’s a chimera.”

Just then, a doctor and two nurses rounded the far corner of the hallway, headed their way.

“Okay, this conversation is officially not safe for work,” Melissa declared. She pushed at Isaac, knocking him into Derek in her haste. “Go.”

“What? Where—“

“Just, go!” She pointed to the patient room she’d been eyeing previously, pushing at Isaac until the two werewolves, followed by the hunter, were tumbling through the door, Melissa closing it behind her.

Derek was startled to see Sheriff Stilinski lying in the patient bed, several machines monitoring his vital signs. He was awake and aware, but looked exhausted and slightly spacey, no doubt from the pain medicine. Derek could see a bandage peeking out from beneath his hospital gown.

“Derek?” Stilinski rasped. “What the—“ He broke off, suddenly looking a tad more alert as he shot his eyes to Melissa. “Where are the boys? Where’s Stiles?”

“We don’t know,” Melissa replied. “Derek and Isaac, they—“

“Look, I’m sorry to interrupt, but we do actually have a very big problem,” Chris broke in. “The Dread Doctors—“

“The _what_?” Isaac exclaimed. “Jesus, the bad guys around here are starting to sound like comic book characters.”

Derek and Chris both shot him a look. Isaac lifted his hands in mock surrender, then slouched against the wall behind the door.

“They’ve released something I…I didn’t think was possible,” Chris continued. He leveled his gaze on Derek. “The Beast of Gévaudan.”

“The _what_?” Melissa croaked, unconsciously mimicking Isaac.

“Wait, so you’re saying it’s…it’s real?” Derek asked.

Chris nodded. “That’s why I’m here,” he continued. “I need Scott. It took the first hunter to defeat this thing centuries ago. It’s going to take a True Alpha to defeat it now.”

“Chris…,” Derek shook his head. “Scott may not be a True Alpha anymore. Not if Theo killed him. There’s no guarantee he’s retained his power.”

“Well, we better hope he has because there’s nothing else I’ve found that we are going to be able to pit against—“

“ _Hey_!” Melissa’s bellow startled them into silence. “Hold on just a damn minute!” She stepped away from Stilinski’s bed and stood between Derek and Chris, her small stature inconsequential in the face of her indignation. “Listen to yourselves…you’re talking about a kid for Christ’s sake. _My_ kid.”

“Melissa,” Chris stepped forward, a hand out as though to soothe her. “Scott is so much more than a kid.”

Melissa pivoted, squaring off with Chris Argent and Derek found himself wanting to take a step back to avoid the fallout.

“You’re wrong, Chris. He _is_ a kid—they’re _all_ kids. Werewolf or not—True _Fucking_ Alpha or not—Scott’s a seventeen year old boy who was dead for over fifteen minutes, and who by some _miracle_ ,” Melissa’s voice cracked but her stance didn’t waver, “is alive right now! And he’s alone and scared and believes he let _everyone_ in his life down.”

Chris swallowed and Derek saw tears turning the whites of his eyes red, Alison’s name suddenly lurking at the edges of the silence.

“All that boy has _ever_ wanted in this life was to keep the people he cares about safe,” Melissa continued, her voice softening as she stared at Chris’ stricken expression. “And since the day he was bitten, he’s fought and bled for those people.” She turned slightly to take in the other men in the room. “He’s not a weapon you can use against the latest calamity to hit this town.” She looked at each of them individually, her eyes lingering longest on Isaac before turning back to Chris. “He’s _my_ kid. And I won’t lose him. Not like that.”

“Melissa,” Derek pitched his voice low, but drew her attention all the same. “How is Scott alive?”

“I told him he couldn’t go. That he needed to…,” Melissa replied, shaking her head helplessly and sucking in her tears with a trembling inhale. “And he just…he _roared_.”

“That’s what we heard,” Isaac declared. “That’s what called us.”

Derek nodded. “And he’s…he’s okay?”

Melissa shook her head again, crossing her arms over her chest. “He’s weak. Really weak. And when he came to tell Stiles about Lydia, he was still bleeding.”

“If we heard him, they did, too,” Isaac said, moving away from the wall to stand next to Derek. “So where the hell are they?”

“Who?” Stilinski spoke up, reminding them that he was part of this thing, too.

“His pack,” Derek replied, scowling. “No way they didn’t hear him. It’s instinctive, the call of the Alpha. You… _feel_ it.”

In that moment, as though to prove his point, Derek felt his wolf shudder, his eyes flashing blue, as a howl shook through the space around them—a raw and desperate cry for help.

From Scott.

He shot a look at Isaac and saw the beta’s eyes glowing gold as the three humans in the room stared warily at them.

“It came from beneath us,” Isaac said.

“What? What did?” Melissa cried, reaching for Isaac’s arm.

“Scott howled,” Derek said. “He’s…he’s in pain.”

Isaac nodded in agreement as his eyes settled back to hazel, but the reprieve was short-lived as all five in the room bent, their hands over their ears, as a shriek pierced the air, turning it bright. It lasted for only a few seconds but at the end of it, Stilinski, Melissa, and Chris were slumped, panting from the shock of sound.

“Lydia,” Chris declared weakly.

“First floor,” Melissa said, waving at the door. “It’s the last place Scott and Stiles were.”

“If that was Lydia, then that means someone’s—” Stilinski tried to push himself forward, a cry bitten off as the machines shrilled.

“Wait, no, no, no, not you!” Melissa focused on keeping the Sheriff in bed as Derek, Isaac, and Chris took off, heading for the stairway and toward Lydia’s room.

They found two doctors arguing with a very worried Natalie Martin, who sat with her arms wrapped around her pale, trembling daughter. Lydia’s large eyes were opened wide, tears streaming down her cheeks. She seemed aware, but terrified, and when she saw Derek, the expression of _need_ that slashed across her face caused him to flinch back in reaction.

“He’s there,” she said, her voice wrecked, ravaged by the scream that had pulled her back into herself, thrusting her raw and exposed into the world again. “He’s down there with them!”

“Who?” Isaac asked, pushing his way into the room, ignoring Natalie’s harsh protests.

“Theo!” Lydia rasped. “Go! Find him, _please_. Find Scott!”

It was all Derek needed. He turned, following Chris toward the doorway that lead to the basement, Isaac on his heels. Chris felt along the wall of the basement at the bottom of the stairs until he came to a fuse box. He flipped a main circuit breaker and illuminated the basement. Derek didn’t question how Chris knew where to find these things; he was an Argent. That’s what they did.

Derek simply followed.

Just before they reached the door that Derek assumed led to the tunnels, a small explosion—too localized to be an earthquake—rocked the building, sending Chris tumbling backwards. Derek caught him and set him on his feet, watching as the hunter drew a Beretta from a back holster, then approached the door.

It was jammed, but Isaac and Derek were able to shove it wide in seconds. The door led to a long hallway that had at one time been lined with water pipes along the ceiling. Currently, however, the hall was swiftly filling with steam, broken pipes hanging from the ceiling mounts and blocking access to the hall.

“Scott’s down there,” Isaac declared.

“You sure?” Chris hollered over the sound of the blasting steam.

“I think Stiles is with him,” Derek said, picking up traces of the energetic teen’s familiar scent.

“Well, if it isn’t Derek freaking Hale.” The voice echoed toward them, seemingly shaking from the pipes themselves. “Heard a lot about you, man. Come to save your little buddy, Derek?”

Derek’s eyes flashed blue, his enhanced vision picking up the source of the voice…as well as five other bodies in the hallway. They were crouched, lurking behind the broken pipes, perched on the still-intact ceiling arches, or—most disturbingly—clinging to the ceiling itself.

“I take it you’re Theo?” Derek called back.

“Ah, you know my name,” the chimera called back. “I’m flattered.”

“Don’t be,” Derek huffed. “I won’t remember it long.”

A growled echoed through the intermittent light, the roar of the steam practically drowning it out.

“If you’re here for McCall,” Theo shouted, “you won’t get him!”

“You sure about that?”

“I can hear his heartbeat,” Theo chuckled. “He’s barricaded himself from us, but he’s weak. No way he’ll take on all of us.”

Derek saw Theo’s eyes flash gold as a tail from the creature clinging to the ceiling whipped down and a snap of electricity bounced from the hands of someone standing over by the collapsed pipes. Theo had amassed a pack of chimera, the likes of which Derek couldn’t hope to quickly categorize. He spared a thought for the Argent’s bestiary—they could probably figure out what creatures Theo had at his command if they had more time.

“No way _you’re_ ready for us, either,” Theo chuckled. “Do yourselves a favor: head back the way you came and leave McCall to us.”

Derek sensed the danger a second before Isaac gasped. He flinched, instinctively pulling back and away as a blond kid stepped from the cloak of the steam, apparently impervious to the scalding heat, and leaned forward, shooting a dragon’s tongue of fire in their direction. Isaac moved quickly, stepping in front of Chris Argent and shielding the human from the dangerous lick of flames.

Derek heard the young wolf cry out, his eyes flashing gold in reaction to the pain, and reached out to grab both Isaac and Chris, pulling them with him through the doorway that lead back to the basement. Dropping the hunter and the wolf on the ground, Derek wrenched the mangled door forward, pulling it shut, twisting the metal into a lock that would keep Theo and his chimera army on the other side.

“’m okay,” Isaac was panting when Derek turned to face him.

The young wolf’s jacket was burned black across the back, the material completely missing in two large strips of burned material, his skin showing through, raw and pink. Without hesitation, Derek rested his hand on the back of Isaac’s neck, pulling the pain of his burns from him and speeding up the healing process until Chris was able to help Isaac to his feet.

“Thanks,” Chris exhaled, his eyes crinkling up at the corners in a sincere smile of gratitude.

Isaac just shrugged. “Of the three of us, which one does not have magical healing powers, huh?”

“You sound like Stiles,” Derek remarked.

“Who is currently trapped back there with Scott and…what the hell _were_ those things?”

“Chimeras,” Chris and Derek answered Isaac in unison.

“And don’t ask me what creatures they are because I don’t know,” Derek replied.

“We’ve got at least one werewolf, a kanima, and a dragon,” Chris speculated.

“Don’t forget the Lightning Thief,” Isaac added. Off of Chris and Derek’s mirrored glances of surprised, Isaac shrugged. “What? I read.”

“We need reinforcements,” Chris declared.

“We need more than that,” Derek muttered, feeling his wolf stirring restlessly inside, anxious to shed its human shell. He rolled his neck. _Not yet._ “We need the pack.”

 


	4. Chapter 4

It wasn’t so much waking up as it was jolting back to reality.

He remembered Lydia’s vacant stare. He remembered the tunnel and the pipes. He remembered the room and his head feeling as though it burst open with pain. He remembered the freak playing Zeus with his bolts of lightning. He remembered Theo and a wicked set of claws. He remembered Scott barely fighting back—

_Shit! Scott!_

Stiles tried to push himself upright but found his left arm filled with pins and needles—a familiar ‘waking up’ sensation as the kanima’s venom wore off. His right felt weak, a strange, warm sensation lying heavy across his chest and shoulder.

Theo. Claws. Stiles groaned, peering down at himself.

“If I turn into some kind of were… _something_ because of this I’m kicking somebody’s ass, I’m so serious,” he muttered, closing his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose as he breathed through the discomfort.

Rolling awkwardly to his left to maneuver into a seated position, Stiles registered that after a hit like the one Theo had delivered, he should be a lot worse shape than just feeling weak and sore. Blinking in the dim light of the flickering, yellowed bulbs, he saw that his flannel shirt was unbuttoned, his shredded T-shirt falling away as he sat up. Some kind of material—wait, was that a shirt?—was pressed against the inside of his shoulder and tied in place.

It wasn’t until that moment Stiles registered the warm body curled near him.

“Scott?” Stiles called weakly, his fingers ghosting over the bandage he now realized was his friend’s shirt.

Scott lay facing away from him, sprawled oddly, as though he’d toppled there. Black streaked his ribs and the part of his bare back that Stiles could see, his tattoo almost gray in comparison. Even in this dim light Stiles could tell Scott was shivering.

Which, odd. Because, hello… _werewolf_.

“Hey, Scott.”

Receiving no reply, Stiles reached over and carefully rolled his friend to his back, drawing his chin up sharply at the sight of the red and black blood-soaked gauze bandage that covered a space the size of a grown-man’s hand on Scott’s chest.

“Oh, dude,” Stiles whispered, finally registering why it was his own wounds weren’t on fire. Scott had pulled his pain away, but it had clearly done a number on him. “Hey, Scotty, man. Need you to wake up, okay?”

Stiles shook him gently but saw no reaction save the steady shivering. Frowning, Stiles leaned forward and carefully pulled the saturated bandage away from Scott’s chest, gasping as the gouges and puncture wounds became visible.

“What the hell?”

No way had that just happened. Stiles had clearly missed something.

He dug his cell phone from his back pocket, then cursed when he saw the crushed glass front, the dark face of the phone mocking him. Grabbing the jacket Scott had apparently decided to use as a pillow for Stiles, he patted the pockets until he found Scott’s phone. It was intact, but had no bars.

“Well, that’s just…typical.”

Scott was bad off and Stiles staring in confused horror at the wounds on his chest wasn’t helping him get any better. Awkwardly covering Scott’s chest and shoulders with his jacket, he tried to warm his friend up a bit and stave off the worrisome shivering, but quickly realized he wasn’t going to combat the chills if Scott stayed lying shirtless on the cold cement floor.

“C’mere, buddy,” Stiles muttered, pulled Scott toward him.

Scooting backwards, Stiles slumped against the wall and, mainly using his left arm as his right was completely uncooperative, hoisted Scott up so that his friend’s back rested on Stiles’ front. Covering Scott once more with his jacket, Stiles tried to find a clear path through his ricocheting thoughts.

Scott wasn’t healing; something was clearly wrong, but what? Deaton had said pain triggered the healing process, but there was no way he was hurting Scott further at this point. Last time he saw Scott this bad, Alison had resorted to stitching him up on the floor of a rest stop bathroom.

“Scott, listen to me, okay?” Stiles licked his lips nervously. “I don’t have a spare needle and thread on me, so I need you to just, uh…y’know, just _decide_ to heal. Or whatever. Okay?”

Scott lay heavy against him. Stiles could feel soft puffs of breath against the arm he braced across Scott’s chest. At least he had that slight reassurance.

“Listen, Theo and his minions are still out there, man. And I can’t do this without you. I need you to wolf out on me, Scotty, okay?” He swallowed and immediately course-corrected. “Well, not _on me_ , exactly. But on my behalf.”

Dropping his head back against the wall, Stiles closed his eyes. “C’mon, man. I’m a little out of my depth here.”

Since the nogitsune, something had shifted in the part Stiles’ brain that kept him feeling like a human pinball machine. He’d stopped taking his Adderall, finding the restlessness that had both driven him and interfered with him most of his life was pacified. Calmed. As if the wicked fox spirit had burned through years of anxious energy in just a few weeks.

But there were times when he still couldn’t find the candle of thought to guide him and floundered in quiet, internal panic until he was rescued by someone who, unfailingly, knew the path to reason. This time, however, his rescuer was pale and bleeding and unconscious and every one of those facts was so _sideways,_ Stiles felt multiple threads unraveling inside him.

His fingers began to tingle, his throat was dry, his heartbeat slammed against the base of his throat. He’d had enough of them to recognize the beginning of a panic attack. His breath stuttered and his vision blurred.

Without consciously registering the motion, Stiles reached up and began to run his fingers through Scott’s dark hair—tangled with dried sweat and blood—finding solace in the repetition. After a few minutes, he felt his breath begin to even out, the crash of his heartbeat slowing down to match the rhythm he felt beneath his protective arm.

“What’s going on with us, Scotty?” he practically whispered, his voice a low rumble against the top of Scott’s head. “How did we let him get between us like this?”

“Stiles?”

He _felt_ the word more than heard it. Scott’s voice trembled from his chest, a vibration of sound against Stiles’ arm.

“Hey,” he replied, as though Scott waking up wounded in his arms was the most natural thing in the world.

“Are you…petting me?”

Stiles stilled, then closed his eyes and relaxed against the wall, feeling Scott sink back with him. _Own it, Stilinski_. The act had calmed him down. He refused to be embarrassed when he’d successfully avoided a panic attack.

“Let’s face it,” he said, chin resting gently on the top of Scott’s head. “That is hardly the worst thing you’ve caught me doing.”

Scott started to pull away but Stiles felt him instantly still, his entire body going rigid as a low hiss slipped between his lips.

“Easy,” Stiles instinctively cautioned.

He could feel Scott’s blood soaking through the denim jacket; he wasn’t all that excited about staying in this room, but Scott bleeding out during an escape attempt was much less appealing.

“Before you say you’re fine, let me just say I’ve seen the claw marks.”

Scott said nothing for several minutes. He was quiet so long that Stiles tipped his head to see if he was still awake. In the dim light, Stiles could see his friend’s profile, his eyes the shade just before black, lashes moving with a slow blink.

“What happened to you, Scott?” Stiles demanded, still looking at his friend’s profile. “Where were you when Theo went after my dad?”

“School,” Scott replied. “Trying to…stop Liam.”

He made no further effort to move away and his shivering seemed to ease. Stiles decided to see both as good signs. Above them, one of the flickering yellowed bulbs finally gave up and went dark with a quiet _pop_. The remaining bulb seemed to shine a cone of light directly down on them, turning the rest of the room pitch.

On the other side of the metal door, Stiles heard what sounded like a series of muted explosions, the cement floor and wall of the room shuddering as though a brief earthquake had rocked the hospital. Scott turned his head slightly; Stiles felt the strange coolness of his friend’s normally over-heated skin against his unbandaged shoulder.

It took him a moment to register that Scott was actually listening to something.

“Theo’s out there, isn’t he?” Stiles asked, knowing the answer.

Scott nodded.

“And his minions?”

“There’s more,” Scott replied. Stiles frowned at the breathy slur of his words. “Six.”

“What the hell? Did he pour water on them or something?”

Stiles felt Scott’s slight chuff of laughter. “S’long as he doesn’t feed ‘em after midnight.”

It felt good to share a private joke with Scott again—so much so that Stiles almost forgot that he’d been angry as hell at the guy not more than an hour before.

 _Almost_.

“Did Liam do this to you?” Stiles asked, taking advantage of Scott’s lethargy to get some honest answers.

Scott nodded. “And Theo.”

Stiles’ shoulder twinged, a surprising flash of pain surging briefly through the cuts Theo had left behind.

“What did Theo mean when…,” Stiles frowned, tightening his hold on his friend, “when he said you should have stayed dead?”

Something banged against the outside wall and Scott flinched. There was no way they were getting out of this room and through Theo and his minion chimera with Scott as wrecked as he was. He needed time to heal; Stiles simply had to wait it out. He’d gotten pretty good at that particular skill of late.

“He killed me.”

Stiles had known—didn’t take a genius to crack the chimera’s code—but knowing the truth and hearing it spoken were two very different things. Stiles tried to keep his breath even, but knew that Scott could hear his heartbeat.

“But…just for like a second, right?”

Scott shook his head slowly, his hair rustling against Stiles’ flannel shirt.

“Theo, uh…,” Stiles licked his lips nervously, “he told me that I could help you…or save my dad. And I, uh…I chose my dad.” The guilt burned through his gut like acid.

Scott shifted again, turning himself so that he still leaned against Stiles, but could look up at his friend’s face. Stiles pulled his legs to the side so that his shoulder was between Scott’s bare skin and the cement wall, his friend slumped sideways against him.

“You made the right choice, Stiles,” Scott said, his voice clear, tone serious. “You don’t owe me anything.”

Stiles jerked his eyes over, staring at Scott in surprise. “What? What does that even mean?”

“’s my fault,” Scott said, his eyes weighted with responsibility and exhaustion. “All of this. I trusted him.”

Stiles felt guilt eat away a little more of his gut, working a greedy path up to his heart. He’d accused Scott of this very sin and yet to hear Scott speak it out loud reminded Stiles that Scott wasn’t the only one to fall into Theo’s web of lies. In one way or another, they’d all trusted him. They’d all wanted to see the regular kid and not the true monster that lay in wait within.

“Yeah, well. I trusted him, too. A little,” Stiles shrugged, then winced as the motion pulled at his wound. “At least when I wolf out I can kick his as in real time.”

Scott actually smiled slightly at that. “You aren’t going to wolf out.”

“You don’t know that,” Stiles lifted a brow and looked over at his friend. “Next full moon, I could be totally wolf-y.”

“He scratched you.”

“Peter turned Kate Argent into a freaking purple werejaguar with a scratch,” Stiles argued.

“Theo isn’t a real werewolf,” Scott reminded him. “He’s a chimera.”

Stiles pushed his lips out. “Right,” he bounced his head once in a nod. “I’m almost disappointed. Coulda been legitimately part of the pack.”

At that, Scott lifted his head from where it rested against Stiles, his eyes flashing a soft crimson. “You _are_ part of the pack, Stiles.”

“Well, yeah, but not really,” Stiles argued. “I mean, I’m not, like, _pack_ pack.”

Scott pushed himself completely away from Stiles, sitting up taller, his jacket falling free and landing in a heap in his lap. The red in his eyes had once more faded to dark brown, but the expression was deadly serious.

“There is no pack without you,” Scott replied. “You need to believe that. You’re…you’re my anchor.”

Stiles couldn’t tear his eyes away from the wounds on Scott’s chest. “Thought you were your own anchor.”

“Not always,” Scott replied tiredly, coughing a bit, the sound a wet slap against the air between them. He slumped against the wall, his bare shoulder resting against Stiles, and was quiet for a moment, then, “’m sorry I wasn’t there for your dad. Shoulda protected him from Theo.”

Stiles was still working on a way to say _yeah, you should have_ and _it’s not your fault_ at the same time when Scott continued, “I broke us.”

Dropping his head back against the wall, Stiles sighed. “We’re not broken, man. We just…got a little off course.”

“Shoulda listened to you…‘bout Donovan.”

“Yes. Yes you should’ve,” Stiles nodded. “But…maybe I should’ve trusted you with the whole truth.”

More bangs outside startled Scott into a flinch which was quickly followed by a low groan. Stiles turned at that, wanting to do _something_ to alleviate his friend’s pain. He picked up Scott’s jacket.

“Put this back on,” he said. “At least it’ll keep you a little warmer.”

Scott nodded weakly and tipped away from the wall, reaching for the sleeve. Between the two of them, they got his jacket back on, though it did very little to shield the garish wounds on Scott’s chest. The activity exhausted the already spent werewolf and Scott coughed again, this time a worrisome black wetness staining his lips.

“Okay, so that’s not good,” Stiles murmured, frowning at the sight of the black blood on his friend’s lips.

Without bothering to wipe it away, Scott slumped sideways again, his cheek resting against Stiles’ shoulder.

“Why aren’t you healing, Scott?”

Scott was quiet, his breath hitching loudly in the cloistered room. “I wouldn’t turn Hayden,” he started finally, his voice soft enough Stiles found himself leaning closer so as not to miss a word. “Liam thought I betrayed him. Thought I wanted to just let her die.”

“The bite could’ve killed her just as easily,” Stiles pointed out.

Scott nodded. “The supermoon was too…. Liam didn’t have enough control. All the pain and anger…he just let it take over. Made him stronger. So strong…,” Scott’s voice tapered slightly.

“Yeah, but…, dude. You’re an Alpha. _Liam’s_ Alpha. You could have put him in the ground.”

“I didn’t want to hurt him. I just wanted to stop him. I _couldn’t_ hurt him.”

And there was Scott McCall in a nutshell. _Save every one you can_. Stiles turned so that he could wrap his good arm around his friend’s shoulders pulling Scott closer.

“So, where does Theo fit in?”

“Mason…,” Scott took a slow, shuddering breath and Stiles frowned, feeling the tremor slip through Scott’s whole frame. “He came in and told Liam that Hayden…died. And then Theo was just…there. Wanted my power, but…he couldn’t take it.”

“Yeah, I saw that,” Stiles nodded, thinking of Scott’s red eyes. “But he took something, didn’t he? That’s why you’re not healing?”

Scott nodded, but didn’t say anything else. His breath sounded thin, raspy. Stiles recalled the years before the bite when he carried an extra inhaler to back up his friend, when breathing that sounded like this would be cause for serious panic.

“Do you have your inhaler?” Stiles asked, knowing the truth, but needing to ask.

“No. Theo…poisoned it. Wolfsbane.”

“Son of a bitch,” Stiles growled.

He didn’t care what kind of a person it made him, he wanted that asshole _dead_. Between a wolfsbane-weakened system and gouge marks on his chest that no-doubt punctured his lungs, it was a wonder Scott was breathing at all.

“How’d you…I mean, did Mason bring you back?”

Scott shook his head. “My mom.”

Stiles felt his mouth tick up in a small smile. _Of course_. Because Melissa McCall was a badass force of energy that not even the supernatural world could touch.

They sat for a moment. The single bulb above them flickered with the muted crashes they could still hear once in a while from the other side of the wall. Scott made an odd, choked sound—like a bitten off gasp of fear—and wrapped an arm around his middle, pressing closer to Stiles.

“Stiles…pull your legs out of the dark.”

It was such an odd statement, Stiles blinked, looking down at Scott. “Do what now?”

“The shadows,” Scott whispered. “They’re growing. They’re…just pull your legs up.”

Stiles tented his knees so that his whole body was inside the cone of light. “That better?”

Scott relaxed a bit and nodded. “The wolf is waiting in the shadows,” he whispered.

Stiles pulled his arm free and turned a bit to the side so that he could stare at Scott.

“You realize you’re talking like a crazy person right now…right?”

Scott was blinking slowly, his face pale in the dim light, and Stiles could see a darkening of his veins around his mouth and eyes. The black blood on his lips had collected at the corner of his mouth.

“’s okay,” Scott murmured.

Stiles tilted his head. “Not really,” he replied, drawing the words out.

There had to be something more he could do besides sit and wait for rescue or for his best friend—who looked like he was literally dying before his eyes—to somehow manage to heal before he bled out. Using the wall for support, Stiles clambered to his feet.

“Stiles!” Scott called out, blinking rapidly and looking around a bit wildly the moment Stiles stepped away.

“Right here,” Stiles touched the top of Scott’s head. “I’m not going anywhere, man. Just gotta find something to help save our asses.”

“’Kay,” Scott nodded beneath his hand. “Wait. You hear that?”

“What?”

“Voices…. Sounds like…voices.”

“You mean with my super-special human ears? Nope. Sure don’t.”

Scott’s brow was creased, his eyes closed as he tilted his head, listening for whatever voices had caught his attention.

“Is it Theo?”

“Yeah, but…someone else. Almost sounds like—“

“Who?” Stiles allowed himself to hope for one brief, bright moment that reinforcements had arrived, but when Scott shook his head, then helplessly blinked up at him with pain-filled eyes, Stiles patted him on the head again. “It’s okay, Scotty. We’ll get ourselves out of here somehow.”

Their phones were either dead or useless. A small army of chimera monsters were outside the door. And Scott was fading fast. Stiles began to move from shelf to shelf, picking up boxes and bottles and using the flashlight on Scott’s phone to read the labels. He could hear Scott’s breathing behind him, making him disturbingly nostalgic for a time when asthma had been his friend’s biggest worry.

“I didn’t kill Donovan on purpose,” Stiles began, not looking at Scott as he talked. His shoulder and chest were starting to burn from the exertion, and he held his arm close to his side. “He…I don’t know…attacked me. Bit my shoulder like he was going to eat me or something.”

As he made his way around the room, finding nothing but expired cleaning products, he told Scott about the fight in the library, the mad scramble up the scaffolding, the pin, the way Donovan hung suspended from the metal spearing him mid-center as the light left his eyes.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Scott asked softly, looking oddly small and alone in the circle of light as Stiles stood across the room, cloaked in shadow.

“I don’t know, man, you’re always just…,” he waved a hand loosely toward his friend, as though indicating his whole self. “You _don’t_ kill. You always find another way. And I guess I didn’t want you to look at me…exactly like you did when you found out.”

“I know the difference, Stiles.” His voice sounded both strong and fragile at once—conviction wrapped around the hollowness of pain.

“What do you mean?”

“I know what self-defense is.”

Stiles sighed, shutting off Scott’s phone and throwing the empty box in his hand into the corner. “There’s nothing here. I mean, if I could channel Deaton or something, maybe I—“

“Stiles!” Scott’s call was urgent. Stiles looked up and over. “Come out of the shadows.”

 _The wolf is waiting in the shadows_.

Stiles moved closer, watching Scott visibly relax when he stepped into the light.

“What happened to you, Scotty?” Stiles asked softly, crouching down next to him again.

He wasn’t able to stifle a gasp of pain as his shoulder flared hot with the movement. He could feel blood seeping through the field dressing Scott had managed to put on his wound. Sinking down fully to his rear, legs crossed in front of him as he faced Scott, Stiles closed his eyes, trying to rein in the nauseating spin of pain that swept him.

Suddenly, he was aware of two immediate things: Scott’s ice-cold fingers were wrapped around his wrist and his pain was quickly abating. He opened his eyes to see dark veins slip like eager snakes up Scott’s hand and disappearing beneath the sleeve of his jacket.

Stiles jerked his hand away. “What the hell—! Are you _crazy_?”

“You were hurting,” Scott explained.

“Dude, you’re…you can’t take more right now,” Stiles protested, feeling emotion wrap fingers around his throat and flex as he took in the mess of black blood on Scott’s chest, the growing bruises of pain on his face. “Scott…I’m afraid you’re…. You look like you’re _literally_ dying, man. Like right here in front of me.”

Scott closed his eyes, exhaling slowly. Stiles pulled his wounded arm close to his chest and rotated so that he was against the wall once more, his good arm around his friend’s shoulders. Pulling that little bit of pain from Stiles had sent Scott shivering once more and Stiles held him tight.

“’s okay,” Scott finally said. “Maybe it’s…the best thing for everyone.”

Stiles frowned. “We’ve talked about this. I didn’t step into a pool of gasoline for just anyone, Scott.”

“Not what I mean,” Scott shook his head. “This… _all_ of this. Lydia being a banshee, Alison dying, the nogitsune finding you…it’s all happening because of me.”

“Explain that one to me,” Stiles demanded. “Like I’m five.”

“I coulda just…joined Derek’s pack. When I got bit. I coulda just…walked away…from all of this.”

Scott’s shivering increased and Stiles could hear a small whimper at the back of his friend’s voice—a decidedly canine-sounding whimper. It wasn’t just Scott’s body that was wounded, Stiles realized. The wolf within him was damaged. And since his healing properties came _from_ the wolf…it was _that_ part of him that Stiles needed to figure out how to heal.

But…how the hell did he heal a wolf?

“Walked away from us, you mean,” Stiles clarified, trying to follow Scott’s logic. “You think you should have left us? And that would’ve kept us safe?”

Scott nodded.

“Scotty, we were _never_ safe. The Hales were already here. Peter was running around all crazy Alpha werewolf, remember?”

Speaking of Hales…what had Derek said about a werewolf’s strength? Why Peter attacked Scott in the first place…. Why Derek needed Isaac and Boyd and Erica….

“Just wanted…wanted m’life,” Scott muttered, his breathing slightly more labored between each word. “Wanted to…to be a good friend…’n son. Never wanted the bite.”

“Still not seeing how all this is because of you,” Stiles argued, his brain alive with memory. “It took all three of us—you, me, and Alison—to set off the nemeton when we saved our parents, remember? We _all_ turned on the…the beacon thing that brought the crazies out of the woodwork.”

Something had been taken from Scott when he died and came back…something vital, something necessary, something that left him flinching away from shadows and feeling a distinct lack of worth.

“’f I had just left, just joined up with Derek and left,” Scott protested, “our parents wouldn’t‘ve been in danger. _You_ wouldn’t‘ve been in danger. No danger…no signal. No Dread Doctors. No chimeras.”

“And no Scott.” When he received no reply to that one, Stiles continued. “While we’re dishing out blame for all of the supernatural insanity, how about why you got bit in the first place, huh? I was the one who wanted to go looking for a dead body. You didn’t even want to be there. So, really…it’s all _my_ fault.”

“No.” Scott pulled his head up, but wasn’t strong enough to shift away from the support of Stiles’ body. “No, Stiles. You…you’re what keeps everyone… _human_. You’re the…glue.”

Stiles looked down, not sure how he felt about Scott’s odd praise. “Except for when I’m being controlled by a wicked fox spirit, you mean.”

“You are the one… _one_ bright thing in all of these…these shadows, Stiles.” Scott’s voice had started to fade a bit and he allowed his head to rest on Stiles’ shoulder once more. “So many things I shoulda done differently…so many people I…shouldn’t’ve trusted. I screwed us all up…’n I lost my pack.”

_Holy shit. Of course!_

The pack. They were disjointed, unconnected, broken. And without their strength, without their bond, Scott was slipping back into the shadows.

He _was_ dying right before Stiles’ eyes.

“Scott, just listen to me, okay?” Stiles felt tears burn his eyes, thinking about Scott calling him an anchor. “You trusting people…that’s what makes you…well, _you_. You see the good in people! It’s what draws us all to you. Makes us trust you.”

Scott coughed weakly and Stiles closed his eyes against the sound.

“You aren’t a True Alpha because you won the werewolf lottery, man. It’s _who you are_. Don’t doubt that now, Scott. Okay? The fact that you believe in people, man, it’s a gift. It’s not a flaw.”

“Tried….”

Stiles leaned closer, holding Scott tightly. “Tried? Tried what, Scotty?”

“Tried to keep them safe.”

“You have, Scott. You gotta see that—you saved _everyone_. You’ve saved all of us.”

Scott didn’t reply and Stiles felt him growing heavier. He tried to use both arms to push Scott upright once more, but the pain in his wounded shoulder flared hot and bright and for a brief moment, all he saw was white. After several heartbeats of breathing slowly, the pain tapered a bit, but the tears burning his eyes built and fell, scoring his dirt-streaked cheeks.

“You wouldn’t let the nogitsune take me. Not even after I hurt you—and I hurt you _so bad_ , Scott. I’m not going to forget that, like…ever. You wouldn’t let me disappear. You found me and pulled me back and…you never gave up on me.”

He sniffed, tightening his hold on Scott, unable to see his friend’s face. He knew by the way Scott slumped fully against him, the way his body shivered, that his friend was fading fast. He didn’t know if he was aware enough to listen, but there was a piece of Scott that always heard Stiles.

“And I know I got on you about Theo, but…I was scared. Okay? We’ve made it through so much together and I could feel everything getting ready to change. I don’t want to do this whole living thing without my best friend, okay? I just…don’t want you to leave me behind.”

Unable to stand the silence, Stiles turned, pulling slightly away from Scott, and eased his friend down so that he lay on his side, back propped up against the wall. Grasping Scott’s jaw in his stronger left hand, Stiles shook him slightly.

“Scott. Scotty! C’mon, man, don’t do this. _Please_.”

Scott’s eyes were closed, the black blood staining his lips turning his skin unnaturally pale. Stiles could feel his heartbeat beneath the fingers at his throat, but his breath was thin and raspy, his eyes moving rapidly behind his closed lids. If Stiles didn’t find a way to get the pack back together, they were going to lose their Alpha forever, and not even the magic of Melissa McCall was going to be enough to bring him back this time.

Dragging the back of his hand across his dirt-and-blood streaked face, Stiles pulled his tears in, taking a slow, shuddering breath.

“I gotta go out there, Scotty,” he said quietly. “I can’t just…wait in here and watch you die. You’re my brother, dammit. I was mad at you for not trusting me, but…I should have trusted you, too. And I do, Scott.” He leaned forward and gripped Scott’s cool, limp hand with his own. “I trust you, okay? And I need you, man. So, I’m gonna go out there and get your— _our_ pack. And I need you to be here when I get back. Okay?”

Licking his lips nervously, Stiles released Scott’s hand and climbed to his feet. He made his way over to the door, pressing his back against the wall and using his legs to push the shelf away from the door. It was then that he realized the only reason Theo hadn’t pushed his way into that room was because he hadn’t wanted to.

If Stiles could move the shelf away from its blockade of the door, Theo could have come in after them at any point. He took a breath, and glanced back to where Scott lay wounded and alone in the remaining circle of light, then pulled at the twisted metal door, hoping that Theo and his minions had managed to blow themselves up or had wandered away somewhere.

“God, I know you’ve got that whole mysterious ways thing going for you,” Stiles whispered, “but it would be really swell if you’d point your hand at our side of the field…just once.”

He yanked the door toward him and exhaled harshly when the motion flared heat in his cuts. Standing on the other side of the door was a blond kid with glowing yellow eyes and twin balls of fire churning in the palm of each hand. He grinned at Stiles, his mouth aglow with flame.

Stiles glanced upwards. “I take it that’s a _no_?”

A hand darted forward, grabbing Stiles by the edge of his shirt, and hauled him out into the steam-filled hallway.

 


	5. Chapter 5

“That is _enough_!”

Derek’s angry bellow shook the metal instruments laid out on Deaton’s treatment counter. With the flat of his arm, Derek slammed Liam against the wall next to the metal table, the window above their heads cracking with the force. His eyes flashing blue, Derek bared his teeth, fangs extended, as he stared hard at the young beta.

“If Scott had tried to turn your girlfriend, he would have killed her,” Derek said softer, the words shaping around a mouth full of fangs.

Liam’s tear-soaked voice shot back once more, “You don’t _know_ that.”

“ _I do_!” Derek shouted. He took a breath, pulled in the wolf, and released the beta. “I do,” he repeated more calmly. “I tried it before…and she died in my arms. Scott didn’t kill Hayden; he was _trying_ to save her.”

Eyes darting from Derek to Malia and over to Deaton, Liam began to breathe hard, tears pooling in his large eyes. When Derek took a step back, Liam slid down the wall, his sobs audible to the enhanced hearing in the room, and clutched his hair in grief and regret.

“Stop fighting us,” Derek continued, glancing at Malia as the coyote dragged the back of her hand across her healing lip, wiping the blood from Liam’s struggle away. “Stop hating him.”

“I don’t hate him,” Liam whimpered. “But he hates me. He _has_ to.” He sniffed and lifted red-rimmed eyes to look at the others in the room. “I tried to kill him.”

“Scott doesn’t hate anybody,” Malia stated, somehow managing to make it sound like a weakness. “Hell, _I’ve_ tried to kill him.”

“So have I,” Derek lifted a shoulder in acknowledgement.

Three sets of eyes tracked to Deaton who simply smiled. “Not yet.”

“Scott can forgive his friends…well, for just about anything,” Derek continued. “And there isn’t _anything_ he wouldn’t do to try to keep you safe.”

“Point is, you’re pack,” Malia stepped forward, crossing her arms and peering down at the young wolf. “You’re more than that—you’re his beta. And if Derek says Scott needs his pack, you’re coming. End of story.”

“Malia—“ Liam tried once more to protest his worth.

Malia’s eyes flashed blue and she practically hissed at him, baring her teeth.

“Fine, okay! But…,” Liam pushed to his feet, wiping tears from his eyes. “We’re not…I mean, are we…it?”

Derek glanced at Malia. “Did you call Kira?”

Malia nodded. “She was with her mom—“

“I’m here,” came a hesitant-sounding voice. “But…uh,” Kira slid into the treatment room, leaning weakly against the wall, “I kind of have a problem.”

Derek blinked in surprise as her eyes lit a deep orange, the impression of fire licking the air around her.

“The kitsune is strong,” Deaton spoke up. “ _You_ must be stronger.”

Kira offered him a tired smile. “You sound like my mother,” she huffed. “I can’t seem to keep it…inside.” She closed her eyes and arched her neck as the fire took shape of a fox.

Derek grabbed Malia’s arm and pulled her toward Liam, away from Kira, tucking both teenagers behind him as they all three stared in uncertainty and wariness at their friend.

“Kira,” Deaton said softly, demanding her attention. “You must channel and control the fox’s power.” Kira opened her orange-tinged eyes with a clear _tell me something I don’t know_ expression at home on her face. “But until you learn that skill, I can give you something that will calm the kitsune.”

“Why didn’t you just say so?” Malia demanded. Derek arched a brow in Deaton’s direction, agreeing with the werecoyote.

“I wasn’t sure how much she would need it.”

“Be sure,” Kira practically groaned. “Because I’m likely to kill everyone here before I can help Scott.”

“That is a bad plan,” Malia muttered.

Deaton opened a jar of what looked like dried flowers just as Derek’s phone buzzed. He looked down at the screen.

“It’s Isaac,” he reported. “He and Chris have found another way into the tunnels.”

“We need to get over there,” Liam proclaimed. “I gotta fix this.”

Derek turned to face him. “Listen,” he said, his voice low and serious. “Theo is strong—and he has reinforcements. Creatures we’ve never encountered before. It’s not like you’re going to be able to walk up to Scott and say you’re sorry; this is going to be a fight.” He glanced around the room. “And we might not all make it out of there.”

Deaton handed Kira a glass of something that looked like cold herbal tea and told her to drink it. She complied, coughing immediately and dropping the glass. Her knees gave out but Malia caught her before she fell.

“What did you give her?” Derek demanded. There were only so many soldiers he could lose in this fight.

“Foxglove,” Deaton replied. “It will dull the fox’s senses while maintaining its strength. Making it more…pliable.” The vet smiled knowingly at Derek.

“Scott is going to die if we don’t go…but we might die if we do,” Liam broke in. “That’s what you’re saying?”

Derek nodded, looking back at the beta. “That’s what I’m saying.”

“What are we waiting for?” Liam replied.

~*~

“She insisted,” Isaac tucked his hands into the pockets of his leather jacket in an attempt to hide his shrug. “I couldn’t stop her.”

“You couldn’t stop a hundred pound girl who is confined to a wheelchair?” Stilinski scoffed. “Some werewolf.”

“Sheriff,” Lydia broke in. “I need to be here. I can help.”

“You look terrible,” Malia observed, concern bleeding through her tone.

Lydia arched a brow. “If we live through this, you can take me to a spa.”

“Deal,” Malia nodded, crossing her arms and turning to face Chris Argent. “What’s the plan?”

Isaac almost smiled. He’d never really take time to get to know the young werecoyote before Alison—before he left, but he had a feeling he’d have liked her sass. She cut through bullshit like no one he’d met, and there was plenty of bullshit to go around.

Glancing around the room, Isaac was impressed that Derek had been able to assemble the group so quickly. Though they were a rather rag-tag bunch. Liam looked as though he wanted very much for the floor to open up and swallow him whole. Kira crossed and uncrossed her arms, tapping restless fingers like she’d pulled too many all-nighters and was running on Red Bull. Malia…well, was Malia. And Lydia appeared pale and fragile, but had somehow managed to talk her mother into letting her travel with Melissa up to the Sherriff’s hospital room.

The adults in the room—including Derek—were grim and serious. And Chris Argent looked anxious, which was not a look Isaac was used to seeing on the man. It made him feel both uncertain and strangely powerful at once.

“Liam,” Chris called the young wolf forward. “Why did Theo coerce you into attacking Scott?”

“What?” Liam’s eyes darted in confusion between Derek and Chris. “Coerce?”

Derek closed his eyes. Isaac almost smirked. Melissa was right: they really were dealing with a bunch of kids.

“What did he get out of it?” Isaac clarified.

Liam shrugged. “Nothing. I mean, he never _told_ me to kill Scott. I didn’t even know I was going to try…. I mean, the moon, it….”

Derek held up his hand. “Okay, look. Scott is a True Alpha. You can’t just take his power, not like I took Peter’s.”

“But could his beta…?” Chris supposed.

“That’s what I’m thinking,” Derek nodded. “Theo wanted Liam to kill Scott so that he could kill Liam and transfer the power of an Alpha.”

“It wouldn’t have worked,” Deaton informed them. “A True Alpha is extremely rare. You remember I told you this Alpha rises solely on strength of character and force of will? Power like that can’t be taken. Ever. No matter who or what kills Scott McCall, when he dies, his power dies with him.”

“Can we _not_ talk about my son dying?” Melissa asked, her face pulled into a grimace.

Isaac had to agree with her.

“Still, if that’s what Theo was after, he’s not going to stop trying,” Chris argued. “Which means, we need to—“

Lydia’s gasp was sudden, sharp, and seemed to shake each person in the room. Isaac stood closest to her and put his hand on her shoulder.

“Lydia?”

Her green eyes were blown wide; she was staring at nothing, but it was clear she was seeing _something_. Whatever Theo had done to her hadn’t quite healed, but it was being brought out of it by Scott’s howl that seemed to be triggering her now.

“He’s hurting,” Lydia whispered. “So much…there’s _so much_ pain….”

“Who, Scott?” Isaac pressed.

Lydia didn’t look at him, didn’t nod, but he took her continued gasping words as assent. “I can…can see him. He’s…there are shadows around him. Everywhere. He…oh, God—“ Her eyes flew to Derek. “He’s alone.”

Isaac looked up at Derek as well, encouraged by the way the older wolf set his jaw, his eyes becoming hard.

“He’s not alone,” Derek growled. “He never was.”

“You found another way in?” Kira stepped forward, lines of worry drawing her pretty face thin. “Let’s go get them!”

“Hold up!” Stilinski barked. “I want you to get my son out of that place as much as the rest of you, but I can’t condone a plan that sends you kids down against a bunch of…of monsters.”

“Genetic chimeras,” Deaton corrected.

“Whatever! The point is—“ Stilinski tried to continue, pushing upwards a bit more in his bed.

“With all due respect, Sherriff,” Deaton interrupted softly. “That _is_ the point. They weren’t always monsters, they’re genetic chimeras who have been manipulated by the Dread Doctors and re-animated by Theo and are lost and confused.”

“And currently beating the shit out of our friends,” Malia pointed out. Kira nodded, moving to stand shoulder-to-shoulder with the other girl, twin looks of determination on their faces.

“I may have something that will incapacitate them,” Deaton revealed.

Kira’s eyebrows bounced up, Malia dropped her head back and flopped her hands against her legs in exasperation.

“Way to bury the lead, Doc,” Isaac huffed.

Malia turned to Derek. “Next time he’s part of the plan, we ask him to show us all his spells _first_.”

Isaac saw Derek’s mouth bounce in the barest hint of a smile.

“It’s not a spell,” Deaton corrected, the epitome of calm. “It’s Scorpion venom.” He held up three syringes. “I have enough for three. You simply have to get it beneath their skin and it will paralyze them.”

Isaac, Kira, and Derek each took a syringe from him.

“Which three?” Liam asked.

“The dragon,” Derek replied immediately.

“The Lightning Thief,” Chris echoed.

“I’ll take that one,” Kira volunteered, a dangerous smile twisting her lips.

“Theo,” Isaac finished.

“Isaac,” Liam called. “Let me.”

Isaac tilted his head, unsure.

“Please,” Liam persuaded. “I…I owe him.”

Isaac wasn’t sure if he was talking revenge or retribution with this debt, but he handed over the syringe in any case. “That leaves the rest to us,” he warned, looking at Chris and Malia.

Chris reached behind his back and pulled out two of the largest handguns Isaac had ever seen. Malia flexed her hands, her claws emerging with a soft _shink_.

Isaac nodded. “Let’s roll.”

“Be careful,” Melissa called out, standing next to Stilinski’s bed. Isaac glanced back, trying to fill his eyes with her, wanting that reassurance that someone waiting on the other side of the battle actually cared if he lived or died.

He paused behind Derek as the older wolf looked down at Lydia.

“Bring them back.” It wasn’t a request, Isaac realized. It was an order. Dead or alive, Lydia wanted her friends out of those tunnels. And she would know before anyone which way the gavel fell. “Tell Scott, Derek. Make him believe.”

“I will,” Derek promised.

Isaac followed him from the room. “Make him believe what?” he asked when they were clear of Lydia.

Derek glanced at him. “That he’s an Alpha for a reason.”

~*~

Chris Argent knew death. He knew what it was to kill.

He’d lost everyone in his family who had ever meant anything to him: his wife, his daughter, his sister, his father. Yet, even with that loss, he was amazed to discover that he didn’t feel alone. He wasn’t _pack_ …it wasn’t that. But there was a connection between him and these…these soldiers.

No matter what a mother’s heart might say, they were much more than kids. They were asked to cope with more, they were asked to survive more, and they did so with grit and fire and a sense of desperation that screamed a desire to live another day.

He only wished he’d realized it sooner. Before he lost so much.

Bringing Isaac to Europe with him after Alison’s death had been the best decision he could have made. The young wolf embodied Alison’s new Argent decree: _we protect those who cannot protect themselves_. Seeing him now, with the others, Chris knew Isaac had grown into a man to be reckoned with, and he almost felt sorry for those chimeras below.

As the group perched around the pried-up vent in the floor of a basement corner across the hospital from the tunnel door, Chris slid his eyes around at group, each one looking to him. Because he was the leader, the hunter. The father.

“When we go in there, we’ll be several hundred yards from the door where we last saw Theo and his…pack,” Chris told them. “We move fast, weapons hot.” He glanced at Malia as she flexed her claws and nodded in approval. “Priority one is Stiles: get him away from the chimera.”

“But, I thought that—“ Kira started, the syringe gripped loosely in her left hand.

“Stiles is human,” Chris interjected. “No matter how bad off Scott is, they can kill Stiles.” He looked away, remembering. “And it can happen faster than even you guys can stop.”

“Stiles. Right,” Malia nodded.

“You three take out your targets with the venom,” Chris looked at Kira, Liam, and Derek. “Do whatever you have to do to incapacitate them without getting killed.”

Each nodded back at him, solemnly. Chris took a beat to register the fact that Derek Hale had somehow slipped over the line between enemy and ally without so much as a blink. Seeing the powerful werewolf standing across from him now made Chris exceedingly glad his sister had failed to take out the man’s entire family.

“The rest of us make our way to Scott. Go for non-lethal shots, if you can.”

“Why?” Malia snarled. “Not like they won’t be trying to kill us.”

“Because Scott wouldn’t want us to kill,” Derek replied.

Malia pulled her chin up, her bright blue eyes flashing once, but acquiesced. Nodding once, Chris handed his weapons to Isaac, then dropped down through the vent and into a dark, quiet corner of the labyrinth of tunnels. He reached up and caught the weapons Isaac dropped down to him, then moved forward in the dark a bit as the rest joined him.

Glancing back over his shoulder, he flinched at the unexpected sight of five pairs of supernaturally enhanced eyes glowing in the darkness. He paused and waited for Derek to come even with him, the wolf’s bright blue eyes shifting over to take him in.

“Maybe you should follow us,” Derek offered.

Chris suppressed his instinctive smile, then let Derek and Isaac lead the way. The area they were in was utterly dark and silent—so much so that after they’d traveled a hundred yards without encountering anything, he heard Kira sigh. It was a subdued sound, but enough to draw the attention of the werecoyote next to her.

“What’s foxglove?” Malia whispered.

“Whatever it is, it makes me want to cry and scream at the same time,” Kira admitted.

“Use it,” Derek advised. “Push it all inside, into your gut,” his voice lowered and the words became thick as they rounded a set of fangs, “and keep it there until it explodes.”

“What if it…explodes…on the wrong person?” Kira asked shakily.

“It won’t,” Malia declared. “You won’t let it.”

“Quiet,” Isaac snapped. “Hear that?”

Chris did not, but he did immediately sense the five supernatural beings around him instantly tense.

“Let’s go,” Derek ordered, leading them forward.

It didn’t take long for Chris’ eyes to pick up on the flickering, yellowed lights of the tunnel section they’d visited before. He could see a room off to one side, metal double doors blow off, shadows shifting inside. Derek held up a hand and glanced over at Isaac. Chris watched as Derek held up four fingers and Isaac nodded.

 _Heartbeats_ , he realized. That meant two of the chimeras were not in the side room.

The six rescuers pressed themselves against the wall, Derek at the lead, and listened. The four in the room were discussing something about moving forward with a plan Chris couldn’t begin to unravel. He listened for tale-tell words like ‘Dread Doctors’ and ‘The Beast’, but they seemed only to be wondering how they could use their newfound skill sets to take out those who’d bullied them before—and one wanted to rob banks.

A screech of metal and a flash of fire further down the twisting hallway grabbed Chris’s attention and he instinctively flicked the safeties off on both weapons.

“I take it that’s a _no_?”

 _Stiles_.

He felt the pack react to the sound of the teen’s voice, Malia’s growl most audible. Derek’s head jerked in the direction of the large, open room and Chris had just enough time to take a breath before the older werewolf turned to block the only human in their group from the blast of electricity that shot toward them. Derek absorbed the shock and stumbled back, collapsing against the far wall, his chest smoldering from the hit.

Chris whirled around, guns forward and squeezed the trigger, barrels aimed low. He heard a cry of pain— _female_ —and saw a long-haired girl of about sixteen topple back, gripping her leg, pointed teeth bared. He caught a glimpse of her reptilian eyes— _kanima_ —before moving further into the room.

He barely had time to take in the flat metal table— _stolen from autopsy, no doubt_ —and the disturbingly large containers of some sort of green fluid when another teen— _male, pointed teeth, needles for fingers_ —launched toward him. This time he wasn’t able to get off a low shot and whipped the barrel of the pistol across the chimera’s face. It barely slowed down.

The sharp spike of pain burned into his shoulder where the needle-fingers stabbed him, but before he could bring his gun up for another rally, the chimera was pulled off of him and slammed into the far cement wall with such force the foundation cracked. Isaac roared, full-wolf now, his blue eyes blazing and his claws bared. The chimera slashed at him, but Isaac had a taste for blood—Chris had seen him like this before.

He gripped his shoulder and turned to check on the others, leaving Isaac to deal with the chimera as he saw fit. Kira was advancing on the chimera Isaac had dubbed the Lightning Thief, absorbing his electricity with a disturbingly confident smile on her face. One unexpected upper cut later, she was jabbing the venom into the chimera’s neck. That left what appeared to be another wolf and what Chris would swear was a manticore still in the room with them.

He could hear Stiles shouting in the tunnel outside the room—curses and threats and cries of pain—and the sound seemed to trigger Malia into a rage he’d never quite seen. She leapt on top of the manticore—the wings and mane were a sure give-away—and began to choke it out, limberly avoiding the rake of claws as the chimera swiped at her. Chris fired a round into the chimera’s leg and Malia rolled free, coming to her feet and heading to the tunnel as though nothing had happened.

Kira had dropped her syringe and was out in the tunnel, crouching over Derek, siphoning the pain from his shocked system away. Malia pulled Derek to his feet and they moved toward where Stiles was shouting. The last wolf had slipped out as Chris and Malia were distracted by the manticore and Chris saw it now, standing adjacent Theo, someone hanging limply in their grip.

No, not someone… _Scott_.

 


	6. Chapter 6

“Scott. Scotty! C’mon, man, don’t do this. _Please_.”

He heard him. He _could_ hear him. But the problem was the wolf. It was standing there, just at the edge of the shadows, staring at him with red eyes, full of accusations.

Scott wanted to answer Stiles, wanted to tell him it was going to be okay. He knew this wolf. He’d be safe with this wolf. He didn’t have to be afraid anymore.

“I gotta go out there, Scotty….”

 _I know_. _It’s okay, Stiles_.

“I can’t just…wait in here and watch you die. You’re my brother, dammit. I was mad at you for not trusting me, but…I should have trusted you, too. And I do, Scott.”

The wolf tilted its head in question. _Trust_. What an odd word. So many layers. So much meaning. So critical to survival, yet so easy to lose.

“I trust you, okay? And I need you, man. So, I’m gonna go out there and get your— _our_ pack. And I need you to be here when I get back. Okay?”

 _Pack_.

Scott felt something shift in his chest. Something warm and real. Something different than the mind-numbing, suffocating pain that had become his whole world. He watched the wolf come closer, felt it sniff at him, rubbing its muzzle along Scott’s face, pressing its head against Scott’s chest, just above the wounds, and he took a low, stuttering breath.

Somewhere outside of this world of shadows and pain, this world where his wolf was sitting separate from him, watching from the outside in, he felt Stiles move away, heard metal screeching, heard the door pried open. He knew Stiles was leaving, but he couldn’t move, couldn’t open his eyes, couldn’t reach out to stop him.

_Pack…trust._

The words swirled and scattered, only to come back and sit solidly before him, threatening to blend with the shadows and disappear. The wolf stood suddenly, the black hairs on its back standing, its eyes flashing a deep, blood red. Someone was here. Someone was close.

“You’re a mess, McCall.”

 _Theo_. He could feel the chimera’s rage rolling from him, slipping around the room like an echo. He smelled his hate and his vengeance—it was so strong it almost had color.

“Some True Alpha.”

“What’s all that black stuff?”

Another voice, one Scott didn’t recognize. He was almost tempted to see if his eyes would still open, but something about the wolf’s stance warned him not to. The sensation of warmth spread through his chest again, comforting, solid.

“Blood,” Theo’s voice was scorn-filled and thin. “I could kill him right now.”

“Why don’t you?”

Scott waited for the answer, his wolf perched before him like a gargoyle of protection.

“Because I need his power,” Theo growled. “And I can’t take it from him.”

Scott felt hands wrapping around his arms, pulling him from the floor. He didn’t struggle, didn’t fight. He could feel the fragile beginnings of healing seeping into his chest, into the wounds that punctured his lungs and made breathing such a monumental task.

 _Pack. Trust_.

The wolf followed as Theo and his companion dragged Scott from the janitor’s closet into the tunnel. In that instant, Scott was hit with something that felt like a blast furnace. It was so strong, so _raw,_ he groaned, hanging limply from the arms of his captors. The heat seeped into his body, stroking careful fingers up the bared skin of his chest and caressing his wound. The wolf drew close, pressing its strong body against Scott’s legs.

“Scott….”

His name held safe in the voice of a friend he hadn’t known how much he needed. _Derek_.

“Let him go, you bastard!” That was Stiles, Scott could tell. He’d know his friend by heartbeat, by energy. But his voice was unmistakable. “You don’t get to _touch_ him!”

 _He thinks I’m dead_ , Scott realized. And he wasn’t sure how far from that state he truly was, to be honest. He couldn’t recall a time when his wolf had sat outside of him, staring with red eyes, afraid to join with the human shell that was dying around it.

“Burn him,” Theo ordered, his voice devoid of emotion.

“ _No!_ ” The roar was from Isaac, but Scott flinched with the same instinctive reach of protest. The hands gripping him by the arms, holding his sagging body upright, tightened. He couldn’t lift his head, but he was able to blink his eyes open, just slightly.

Enough to see that with his eyes open, the wolf was gone. Enough to see he was hanging between Theo and other chimera wolf, facing off with six of his friends. Enough to see that Stiles was being pinned to the wall by a teen who looked scarily like a freaking _dragon_.

“You want him alive?” Theo mocked. “Fine. Get me the Alpha’s powers and you can have the human.”

“No—“ Stiles protested, but his words were cut off. Scott tried to roll his head to see what stopped Stiles from speaking, but he still couldn’t move.

However, with every protest from Stiles, the warmth within Scott grew. He could feel his tissues stretching to cover gaping holes, his cells multiplying to regenerate broken skin. He could feel the blood that had been rushing to leave his body in a mass exodus moments before, turning instead to heal his wounded heart.

“You can’t take Scott’s power,” Derek informed the rage-filled chimera, “because he didn’t take it from anyone else.”

“Bullshit. I know how this works,” Theo huffed, throwing Scott’s arm away from him so that the young wolf hung awkwardly for a moment in the grip of the other chimera.

Released by Theo’s cohort, Scott collapsed against the cold cement floor, breath rasping, eyes closing once more. He felt the wounds in his chest—hot, hollow—press against the cool floor and for a moment he wanted nothing more than to stay there. To let the darkness win, to give in to the shadows. It was cool here. Quiet here. And the pain…the pain was just something to mark time.

His wolf approached, nuzzling him, pressing its teeth against his face.

 _Scott_ ….

That wasn’t a voice from the tunnel. But it was a voice he knew.

_Get up, Scott._

Oh, he knew her voice. He knew it like his own. He knew it like he knew her smell, her heartbeat, her sacrifice.

 _Alison_.

“I know you kill an Alpha, you take its power,” Theo was saying, moving away from him, moving toward his friends. He stood over Scott’s prone body, a warden. “Except I _did_ kill him. And his punk ass _is still here_.”

_Get up, Scott. They need you._

“Give it up, Theo.” Chris Argent’s baritone slid in through Scott’s pain. “You aren’t going to win this one. And _we_ need him.”

Theo chuffed a harsh laugh. “You need him to kill The Beast.”

“No,” Derek spat. “We need him…because he’s our Alpha.”

“Our friend.” _Isaac_.

How was Isaac here? The feel of his voice surged through Scott and the wolf pressed close.

“Our protector.” _Malia_.

The wolf pawed at him, and Scott couldn’t bite back the groan as the heat in his wounds became bright.

“Our brother.” _Stiles_.

Scott breathed in and the wolf climbed inside of him. He felt it fold into his skin, into his bones. He felt its teeth and claws, felt it stretch and flex.

“And we want him back.” _Kira_.

Scott opened his eyes, pressing his hands flat on the ground, and lifted his head. He could see them all, his vision unconsciously tinged red, his fangs pressing against his blood stained-lips.

_Go, Scott. Nous protegeons ceux qui ne peuvent pas se portaged eux-memes._

His pack could protect themselves, he knew. But that didn’t mean he couldn’t help out.

Ignored where he lay forgotten in a crumpled heap on the floor, Scott turned his head to see Stiles pinned to the wall nearest him, a blond chimera—who smelled oddly of sulfur—holding him by the throat. Through will or the strength of their friendship, he wasn’t sure, Scott was able to pull Stiles’ eyes down toward him and he blinked once.

Stiles blinked back.

“You’re going to have to take him,” Theo mocked.

There were two beats where no one breathed.

“Okay.”

Derek’s assertion was like the shot of a starter pistol. As Scott watched, gathering his strength, Theo and his chimera wolf charged forward. From a room to the right of the group, something with wings and— _holy shit, was that a lion’s mane?_ —launched at Chris and a skinny teen with needles for fingers went for Isaac.

Scott felt a roar building low in his gut, felt his claws extend, gouging the cement. He could feel the wounds on his chest knitting together, pulling painfully at the delicate skin and building barriers against the weakness that would kill him. He dropped his head to draw in a breath, pushing his body upright in a plank.

Then Stiles screamed.

It cut through the core of Scott, triggering the wolf within, and suddenly everything was red. He was on his feet, claws out, teeth bared between one breath and the next. The chimera who’d held Stiles against the wall was pressing a flaming hand against the teen’s wounded shoulder, its mouth open to reveal a furnace of flame within. Stiles’ head was back, his face fisted in pain, and was trying desperately to push the chimera away.

Scott didn’t hesitate. Digging his claws into the fire-breather’s shoulder, he ripped the chimera away from Stiles. The flames in the chimera’s hand caught on Scott’s sleeve as he threw the blond across the room. Shooting a quick glance over his shoulder as he ripped off his burning jacket, he saw Derek step forward, grabbing the chimera out of the air and shoving a syringe of something into its neck. Scott stumbled forward, catching Stiles as he slid down the wall, gasping and whimpering.

“I thought you were dead,” Stiles managed. He was shaking. Scott’s wolf tilted its head, causing Scott to do the same. Stiles smelled wrong. He smelled of pain and fear. He smelled of grief. “I thought you were _dead_ , Scotty.”

Scott had his arms around his friend, holding him close for a moment before easing him back against the wall. He registered Chris Argent rushing forward to flank Stiles. He smelled like comfort, protection. _Home_.

Scott straightened, seeing Liam on the ground, holding a bloodied wound on his abdomen. Isaac stood over him, trading blows with the winged-lion chimera, Derek slammed the needle-fingered chimera into a wall with a mighty kick, and Kira was using a chain pulled down from the rusty pipes above their heads to hold off the other wolf. That left….

“You’re full of surprises, Scott.”

 _Theo_.

Scott turned, claws out at his sides, and saw Theo holding Malia as a shield, his claws at her throat. She was bleeding from a wound on her side, and her eyes were human. But angry. The rage rolled off of her in choking waves.

“Let her go.” Scott didn’t even recognize his own voice. It was raw, deep. He could feel his still-healing wounds tug as he spoke.

“Y’know,” Theo continued, ignoring Scott’s order. He moved forward, pushing Malia in front of him. “I managed to work every one of you. It wasn’t too hard to find your weak point. But this one,” Theo shook Malia slightly, “she’s _full_ of weak points. Especially when it came to family.”

“You son of a bitch,” Stiles spat from the ground, Chris’s body—and his two hand cannons—acting as a shield.

The battle behind Scott had rolled to a stop—the other chimeras either defeated, or too curious to see the outcome of Theo’s standoff to keep fighting.

“What do you say, Scott?” Theo taunted, moving close enough Scott could feel Malia’s heartbeat shimmering through the air toward him. It was steady. She wasn’t afraid. He pinned his Alpha-red gaze to her and saw her eyes flash a responsive blue. “How about you take one for the pack?”

“Let. Her. Go.” Scott repeated, his shoulders flexing, his head lowering, his eyes reflecting the heat of his healing wounds.

For one moment, Theo looked afraid. Scott knew then that he’d always intended to kill Malia. As though the world downshifted into slow motion, Scott saw Theo’s claws dig into Malia’s throat but before he could pull them across and wound her deeper than her coyote could heal, Scott lunged, driving his claws deep into Theo’s gut, causing him to reflexively release Malia.

Scott didn’t see where she fell, or who caught her. He roared, feeling the air around him shake with the force of it, feeling his pack shudder with the power of it. Pushing Theo back against the wall, he flexed the claws of his free hand and held them over Theo’s throat.

“P-please…,” Theo whimpered, eyes still beta-yellow, but wolf quickly retreating. “Don’t, Scott. _Please_ …you don’t kill!”

“You killed me,” Scott growled. “You tried to kill _my pack_.”

“I needed power!” Theo protested, his hands raised to chest level in a semblance of surrender, his eyes still glowing. “I needed enough power to kill The Beast. I-I helped them…. The Dread Doctors. I helped them release it…I just needed to clean up my mess. I needed to be an _Alpha_ werewolf!”

“You can’t become something you never were in the first place,” Scott snarled, but felt himself backing down at Theo’s pleading. His humanity remembering that Theo was a teenager as his wolf rallied memories of Theo’s viciousness.

“I wanted to be like you,” Theo said, his voice small, almost fragile. “I wanted a pack.”

“That’s not something you can take,” Scott said, pulling his claws from Theo’s body, lowering his arm. “You have to earn it.”

Before Scott—or his wolf—could react, Theo shoved his claws into Scott’s healing wound. They speared his heart, gripping it and Scott cried out, stumbling and falling backwards. He heard Kira’s shout of “ _NO_!” echoed by Stiles cry of denial. Theo was on top of him, crouched low, his grip on Scott’s heart solid.

“I’ve done this before, you know,” he said softly, golden eyes almost caressing Scott’s pain-tense, human features. “I took my sister’s heart to live. Now I’ll take your heart to survive.”

“Don’t bet on it.”

Scott gasped and looked over his head as Liam stepped forward, his wolf on point, landing a powerful, merciless blow of claws across Theo’s face. The force of the hit pulled Theo’s claws from Scott’s heart as the chimera tumbled backwards against the tunnel wall. Scott reflexively folded forward, his hand going to his bare chest, feeling blood pool.

Someone was next to him instantly, pulling his head and shoulders into their lap. _Kira_. Scott felt himself gasping, thirsty for air, his body on fire as it tried to heal and reeled from the new wound at the same time. Blinking rapidly, Scott tried to look everywhere at once, hearing Liam and Derek stalk Theo.

“You can’t _take_ a True Alpha’s power, Theo,” Derek was saying calmly.

“What…what is that?” Theo’s voice trembled with real fear.

Malia was next to Kira, her hand on Scott’s shoulder. He was shivering, the tremors sliding through his body. He tried to find Stiles. Where was Stiles?

“Scott may not kill,” Liam’s voice matched Derek’s tone, “but I don’t have a problem with it. How about you, Derek?”

“Never really bothered me much,” Derek replied.

“No! No no no, wait—don’t!” Theo’s protest was cut off and Scott’s desperately searching eyes found Derek as he and Liam stepped away from Theo, an empty syringe in Liam’s hand, the slash marks across his belly already healing.

Derek’s eyes were on something Scott couldn’t see.

“You three have a choice,” Derek growled, showing his teeth. “Leave with me, or go with them.”

“Wh-where are they going?” asked one of the remaining chimera.

“Nowhere good.”

Scott felt their pause for thought wrap around the room as he shivered, his eyes finding Isaac where he was crouching next to Malia. Scott was aware enough of their worry to see it painted across their faces, but couldn’t _feel_ it from them anymore. Couldn’t scent it. His heart was hammering, his body trying desperately to heal around the new wounds, each beat sluicing blood from his body.

“We’ll stick with you,” came a reply. “Always thought Theo was crazy anyway.”

Scott groaned as his chest seized painfully. He could feel tissues coming together then breaking apart as the wolf and human fought for dominance. Pain thrust his human self forward, survival called the wolf. Kira’s hands gripped his shoulders as his neck arched, pressing his head back against her lap.

“Derek!” Her voice sounded scared, desperate.

Scott wanted to comfort her, calm her. They’d won. They were alive, they were all alive. He could see them grouped around him as his eyes roamed for something to anchor himself to—

“Stiles,” he gasped, unable to grab a full breath. “Where’s Stiles?”

“Hey,” the voice was close. Scott saw Liam move aside to make room as Stiles scooted close to Scott’s shoulder, reaching down to grip Scott’s blood-smeared hand. “Hey, right here, buddy.”

“You’re hurt,” Scott wheezed. “Upstairs…hospital…mom—“

The pain shook through him again and he bit back a cry, closing his eyes to try and regain control. When he opened them, everything was tinged red, and his wolf howled inside.

“I’m okay, Scotty, don’t worry, okay?” Stiles’ grip tightened on his hand.

Scott turned toward his friend, seeking the familiar brown of his eyes, wanting the reassurance of that lopsided grin. Stiles looked scared. Tears drew tracks down his dirty face.

“Trust you,” Scott managed, breath a rare commodity suddenly. He _needed_ Stiles to know this. Needed him to believe.

“I know you do, man. I trust you, too, okay? Trust you to get yourself all beat to hell.” Stiles sniffed and looked up at Derek. “We gotta do something…take him upstairs, something!”

Derek dropped to his knees next to Stiles. Only Chris and Liam remained standing. Scott shot his eyes around at his friends. His _pack_.

“Did you kill them?” he rasped.

Malia shook her head. “Poisoned. Deaton.”

Scott felt a sense of relief at that. They were still whole. They hadn’t killed because of him. He dropped his head back, exhaling brokenly. “Good.”

“Why isn’t he healing?” Kira asked, tears turning her words slick.

“He is…,” Isaac observed. “It’s just not staying healed.”

“Theo pierced his heart,” Chris said quietly.

Scott was starting to get dizzy from trying to track the voices around him. He closed his eyes and gripped Stiles’ hand.

“Stiles…,” he started. He wanted to say so much. _Thank you. I’m sorry. Don’t leave me. Let me go._ He tried to force his wolf to obey, to heal him, but the wolf was licking its wounds, crawling into the corner of his soul, unwilling once more to risk the pain. “Stiles.”

It was all he could manage. But Stiles knew. He always knew.

“Hey, I’m not going anywhere, Scotty,” Stiles said, gripping his hand tightly. Scott couldn’t tell which of them was shaking anymore. “You haven’t been able to get rid of me since we were five years old. No way some punk like Theo is going to shake that.”

Scott nodded against Kira’s lap. He felt her hands on his face, smoothing his sweaty hair away from his forehead.

“Let’s move him upstairs,” Chris suggested. “We have to try something.”

Scott felt several sets of hands slide under his bare back and sprawled legs. As they lifted, the pain spiked and he couldn’t stifle the ragged cry that seemed to echo against the walls. They set him down hastily.

“I don’t get it—he was fine!” Kira raged. “He was…he was _Alpha_. And he fought—he protected Stiles and he _fought_!” Her tears began to choke her. “How could he do that and not heal from this?”

“Pack…,” Scott gasped.

“We came together as a pack,” Isaac said. “Our strength was his strength.”

“We’re pack now, though, right?” Malia interjected. “I mean, I still like you guys.”

Scott swallowed roughly, turning his head once more to find Stiles.

“Right here, buddy,” Stiles said, when he met Scott’s eyes.

“Hurts,” he managed.

He could feel the wolf trying. Could feel the wounds starting to close. But it hurt…it hurt _so bad_. The pain triggered his humanity and the wounds opened up again.

“Oh, of course,” Stiles breathed. He looked up at Derek. “When he thought you were dead…he couldn’t heal. We almost lost him, but…Alison made him _believe_ he was healing and…he did.”

Scott gasped as his heart stuttered on a beat.

“The pain is keeping him human,” Derek nodded. Scott felt him reach forward. “Everyone find skin. Pull his pain from him. All of us.”

Scott closed his eyes. Hands were on his face, his arms, his ribs, his belly, his wound. Stiles’ hand never left his grip. And suddenly he felt heat. Intense, white-hot. He wanted to scream as it rippled through him but he had no air. Instead he heard the cries of his friends as they took in his pain.

He knew black lines would be snaking up their arms; he knew they’d each feel a touch of the physical mixed with the emotional, that they’d know his fear, his desperation, his loneliness. His back arched, his body bowing into their touch as the holes—literal and figurative—in his heart began to close. He gasped for breath, the relief of pain dizzying and overwhelming.

For a brief moment, Scott was breathless, hanging suspended in the grip of his pack’s will for him to survive. Then his wolf howled, a sound of coming home, of unity, and he sank gratefully into a darkness that was no longer terrifying.

~*~

Waiting for the outcome of a battle was different for a druid emissary than it was for the worried parents—and friend—left out of the fight.

Deaton stood still and quiet in the corner as Lydia sat stiff and silent, listening for any indication, any voice. Melissa paced, one arm crossed over her chest, her eyes on a steady roam of Stilinski’s vital signs, Lydia’s face, and the door. The Sherriff was stone-faced and pale, keeping his eyes purposefully fixed on nothing.

It seemed as though hours had passed when Lydia finally stirred, but the clock betrayed it’s ruse by ticking away minutes only.

“What? What is it?” Melissa demanded.

“They found him,” Lydia whispered.

“Are they okay?” Stilinski demanded.

Lydia shook her head helplessly, her eyes on the middle distance, her power only taking her so far.

So they waited. And waited. And Deaton felt dread finding a home in his heart. Which wasn’t something he was accustomed to.

The lives of the supernatural creatures he was charged to watch over simply… _happened_. They moved through the course of their existence with him as their emissary—healing when possible, guiding where able, but never interfering, never changing the course of their destiny.

However, he’d never been an emissary to a True Alpha. Never to an Alpha this young. Talia Hale had been twice Scott’s age when Deaton met her, and she’d been a born wolf. Deaton had been well out of his element with a bitten wolf, and one with the strength of character so strong it not only brought forth the rarest form or werewolf, but drew people to him like magnets.

All three adult in the room jumped in surprise when Lydia suddenly gripped the arms of her wheelchair and practically launched herself to her feet. Melissa moved—instinct alone guiding her in her worried state—and collected the fragile girl against her.

“They’re coming!” Lydia said, eyes wide and tear-filled.

Chris Argent was the first through the door. He was dirt-streaked, panting from exertion, but intact.

“We need help—can’t move them through the hospital without suspicion.”

Melissa nodded and eased Lydia back down to the chair. “Injuries?”

“Stiles,” Chris responded, glancing over at the Sheriff. “He’ll be okay.” He looked over at Deaton. “We need your help with Scott.”

“You have it,” Deaton replied.

“Give me two minutes,” Melissa requested. She stepped into the hallway and moments later, they heard the sound of a fire alarm and an announcement for all non-essential personnel to evacuate the north corridor.

“How that woman still has a job here is anyone’s guess,” Stilinski muttered with grudging respect.

“She’s stealthy,” Lydia replied, a smile tipping the corners of her full lips, as she blinked away her tears.

Chris wiped his forehead with the back of his arm.

“What happened down there?” Stilinski demanded.

“Never seen anything like it,” Chris responded, sounding exhausted. “It was a fight…. But these chimeras, they…. It’s not just wolves,” he glanced at Deaton. “The Dread Doctors were experimenting…broadly.”

“Stiles is okay?” Stilinski pressed.

“He was hurt—took a good hit from a set of claws before we got there—but Scott patched him up. Probably going to need some stitches and rest, I’d wager.”

“Claws?” Stilinski sounded weak.

“He won’t turn,” Deaton spoke up, reassuring him. “Chimera can’t turn humans.”

Melissa stuck her head back into the room. “Okay, it’s clear.”

Chris looked over at Deaton and indicated with a nod to follow. As he passed Melissa, he said, “Get that other bed ready and someone to look at Stiles.”

Deaton followed Chris to the basement, pausing outside the mangled door that led to the tunnels. Weak tendrils of steam slid around the corners of the doorway, and soon he saw Malia and Kira exit followed closely by Isaac supporting a wounded-looking Stiles. Three teenagers Deaton had never seen came next, prodded forward by Liam.

And bringing up the rear of the procession was Derek, a bloodied, unconscious Scott in his arms.

Deaton tried to keep his calm demeanor in place, keep his heartbeat steady, but the wolves in the room heard it’s suddenly panicked pace at the sight of Scott and each glanced his way.

“He’s alive,” Derek replied. “But…we need you.”

“I’ll take these three,” Chris offered, nodding at the chimera. “We’ll be at the Preserve when you’re ready to go, Derek.”

“Thank you,” Derek replied. “I, uh…I really mean that. Believe it or not.”

Chris grinned, pale crinkles appearing at the corners of his eyes. He clapped Derek on the shoulder, then dropped his hand to the top of Scott’s head where it rested against Derek’s chest.

“We protect those who cannot protect themselves,” Chris said. “Even if those who need protection…are our leaders.”

“I’ll see you?” Isaac questioned, his grip on Stiles tightening as he turned to face the older man.

“You know where to look,” Chris smiled at the younger wolf, then gestured to the three chimera.

Deaton put the puzzle pieces together quickly: the teens had died and been reanimated into the chimera he saw now. Integrating back into their lives was just not possible. Derek would be taking them with him when he left.

“What about the three with the Scorpion venom?” Deaton asked.

“They’re…a little tied up,” Stiles grinned tiredly.

“I’ll come back for them later,” Chris stated. “After I set things up with Eichen House to contain them.”

Deaton led the way from the basement to Sheriff Stilinski’s room. Malia and Kira headed directly to Lydia, pulling the other girl out of her chair and wrapping her into a strong embrace. Isaac took Stiles to the Sheriff’s bed and waited until both Stilinskis had a moment to reassure each other they were alive, and more or less intact. Deaton led Derek over to the empty bed where he lay Scott down.

Melissa stood close, her hands hovering over Scott’s blood-stained face. “I don’t know what to fix first,” she said, her eyes tracking to the blood that still stained his bared chest.

“There’s nothing you can fix,” Derek told her. “He’s healed. Outside, at least.”

“Tell me,” Deaton demanded, moving toward Scott and laying his hand over the boy’s heart. Scott’s skin was shockingly warm, his breathing rapid, but he didn’t so much as stir at Deaton’s touch.

As Melissa busied her hands guiding Stiles to a chair and pulling away the field dressing to examine his wounds, Derek recounted how they’d found Scott, the condition he’d been in. Stiles filled in the gaps they all had missed while he and Scott had been trapped in the janitor’s storage area.

“When we stood together, as a pack, he recovered enough to join the fight…he’d nearly defeated Theo but then…,” Derek seemed to sag a bit.

“Theo tried to rip out his heart,” Malia supplied.

“Pain makes you human,” Stiles said quietly. “And he was in a _lot_ of pain.”

“So we pulled it out,” Derek looked at Deaton. “All of us.”

“And he hasn’t woken since?” Deaton asked. Derek shook his head. Deaton leaned closer, checking Scott’s pupil reaction, his pulse, then straightened. “He’s still healing,” he realized. “On the inside. His heart is…pulling itself back together.”

“His… _heart_?” Melissa choked out.

“Theo couldn’t have taken his power,” Deaton looked at Scott’s face, appearing achingly young in repose. “But he could have killed him. He very nearly did.” He looked around the room at the humans and supernatural creatures gathered there. “You are the reason he failed.”

“No, Scott fought him, fought back,” Stiles protested.

“He did…and the reason he _could_ was through the strength of his pack,” Deaton stated. He looked back at Scott. “He needs rest, and he needs you. All of you.”

“We aren’t going anywhere, Doc,” Stiles replied.

“You are,” Melissa said, looking pointedly at Stiles. “You need to get those cuts treated. Now.”

“But—“

“Stiles,” the Sheriff intoned in a warning, fatherly tone.

Stiles huffed a muffled, “Fine.”

“Isaac,” Derek called the younger wolf’s attention. “Take Malia and Kira home. You three get some food and rest. You can come back tomorrow.”

“But I thought Deaton—“ Kira started to protest.

“Being _pack_ isn’t about proximity,” Derek cut her off. “Isaac and I heard Scott’s call from thousands of miles away. Being pack is about…,” he looked down at Scott, “heart.”

“C’mon,” Isaac motioned to the girls. “I’ll buy you a pizza.”

“Meat lovers,” Malia stipulated.

“Naturally,” Isaac nodded, tossing a grin toward Derek.

“Liam, you need to go home, too,” Melissa stated. “Your father is on shift tomorrow; I don’t think you’re ready to have the conversation you’d have to have if he found you here.”

Liam nodded, then looked at Derek. “Tell Scott I’m sorry.”

“He already knows,” Derek reassured him.

When they were gone, Melissa took Lydia back to her room to rest and guided Stiles to a treatment area where he could get cleaned up and get some antibiotics and pain killers. Derek and Deaton sat on either side of Scott’s bed, watching, listening as the Sheriff fell asleep, listening as Scott’s breathing changed, listening as the hospital cycled around them.

Once Stiles was cared for and resting, Melissa returned, a blanket in her arms. Neither Deaton nor Derek moved from their perch as Melissa wet a cloth in the room sink and began to gently clean the blood from Scott’s chest, hands, and face. She paused at the dark stain on his lips, her brows pulling together, tears pooling in her eyes.

“It was bad,” she whispered to no one in particular. “It was bad this time.”

“He’s still here, Melissa,” Stilinski reassured her from his bed, somehow knowing exactly what his long-time friend needed to hear.

“That’s right,” Melissa nodded, sniffing. She ran the backs of her fingers along Scott’s cheek gently. “He’s still here.”

She glanced at Deaton, then at Derek. “I want to get him out of these jeans. I can smell the blood on them and I’m not a werewolf.”

Derek glanced at Deaton. “You’re the doc, Doc.”

Deaton nodded and stood, helping Melissa pull Scott’s jeans off and slide him into a clean pair of sweatpants she’d procured from lost and found. Free of blood, Scott looked younger. Peaceful. Melissa covered him with the blanket and kissed his forehead.

“I’ll be back in a bit,” she said. “Have to make rounds and keep them from checking in on you guys too soon.”

Several hours later, Stiles returned to the room, dressed in clean scrubs, his chest bandaged and his arm in a sling. Butterfly bandages pressed the cut on his forehead closed, the bruise an impressive halo around one eye. He climbed onto Scott’s bed, perching at the head on top of the pillow, Scott’s shoulder wedged against Stiles’ hip. No one corrected or questioned him. Melissa came in to check on Stilinski, saying they had another several hours before a doctor made rounds.

Near dawn, Deaton sensed Scott stirring. Stiles’ head bounced forward where he’d rested it back against the wall. Derek simply blinked, waiting.

“Scotty?”

“Stiles?” Scott’s voice was rough from disuse.

“Hey, buddy.” Stiles grinned and Deaton couldn’t help but smile in response. There was light all around that kid, even when he stood in the middle of darkness. “How ya doin’?”

“Better?”

“You don’t sound sure,” Deaton spoke up, standing and drawing Scott’s bleary gaze.

Scott pushed the blanket down to his waist, then pressed his hands flat against the bed to sit up. It took both Stiles and Deaton’s help to haul him upright. He sat next to Stiles, their shoulders touching, Scott’s body sinking sideways into his friend’s frame.

“It doesn’t hurt…not like it did.”

“Your heart was damaged,” Deaton told him. “It will take time to heal…especially as you were very recently…,” He paused, unsure how to exactly phrase this next part.

“Dead,” Melissa supplied, moving to the foot of Scott’s bed and hitching her hip up on the mattress.

“In a way,” Deaton nodded. “There are rare instances of an Alpha’s wolf retreating for protection. Lurking, but never really dead. Like Peter Hale,” Deaton glanced at Derek, who nodded, a scowl of thought on his face.

“I saw it,” Scott said.

“Saw what?” Derek asked, standing slowly.

“My wolf,” Scott looked up at the older man, his eyes young and uncertain. “I saw it when…when the pain took over, when I closed my eyes…it was there. Big and black, with red eyes.”

“You _saw_ your wolf?” Deaton’s eyebrows bounced up, taking this in. “I’ve heard of this possibility, but…never…. Did it interact with you?”

“Mostly it just stared. Like it was accusing me of something.” Scott looked down at his chest, rubbing his hands over the smooth skin where the claw marks had been. “Of not being strong enough.”

“You’re not invincible, Scott,” Stiles protested.

“I’m an Alpha,” Scott argued. “I should’ve been able to stop Liam without hurting him. Stop Theo before he even started.”

Derek leaned forward. “Look. You’re right. Alphas are stronger. More powerful. But most of us—hell, every other one I’ve met—are that way because we killed for it. Our power comes from our willingness to be ruthless. Yours doesn’t.”

Scott frowned, staring at Derek as though he held answer to questions Scott hadn’t thought to ask.

“Your strength comes from your character, and you are a good person, Scott. You don’t kill to get what you want. You’re willing to die for it.”

“But…,” Scott looked over at Deaton. “I _did_ die. So…how am I here?”

Deaton saw Stiles look over at Melissa with a sort of hero’s worship.

“Part of it was you,” Deaton said. “You weren’t ready to die…and when your mother called you back, you listened.”

“And the other part?” Stiles asked.

Deaton offered a small smile. “I think it was inherited.”

Scott’s brows pulled together. “Like…from my parents?”

“In a way. From your sire. Peter Hale bit you, turned you. And he was able to latch onto Lydia and use her to bring himself back from the dead.”

Stiles rolled his eyes. “Swell. You get immortality from a psychopath. That’s friggin’ awesome.”

“Not immortality,” Deaton cautioned, shaking his head. “Resilience. You _can_ die, Scott. Remember that or life becomes commonplace.”

Scott nodded soberly. Something in his expression shifted as his eyes slid to the darker corner of the room. It looked like disbelief. Like fear. Derek sensed it and pinned Scott with a serious expression.

“What is it?” Derek asked.

“Do you see that?” Scott asked, his voice strangled.

“What?” Derek looked over his shoulder.

“The shadows.”

Stiles straightened. “You said something about shadows down in that room. Told me the wolf was waiting in them.”

“They were…down there they were _growing_. Reaching for me.” Scott looked over at Stiles, brows close. “They were reaching for you, too. I thought it was because—“ he brushed his hand over his healed skin, “but I see them now, too.”

Deaton put a reassuring hand on Scott’s arm. “You can’t go through what you did without some residual side effects. You were, for all intents and purposes, dead. And you are a supernatural creature. The universe doesn’t just fold around events like that without leaving scars.”

“So the shadows are…scars?” Scott asked.

“From a certain point of view, yes,” Deaton replied.

“Oh, dude, that was such a perfect Obi-Wan Kenobi,” Stiles grinned. Off Scott’s confused glance he huffed. “Are you kidding me? Obi-Wan Ken—forget it. You’re a lost cause.”

“You may have more in common with Lydia than you ever thought you would,” Deaton considered. “It may be why your cry for help woke her. Use the shadows to your advantage. They could be a warning of danger to come.”

“How am I gonna know when it’s a warning, though?”

Deaton smiled with a small shrug. “You’ll just have to learn how to feel it.”

“It’s like…a werewolf Force,” Stiles cackled. “And you’re a werewolf Jedi.”

“Stiles,” Sherriff Stilinski sighed from the other bed, his smile affectionate.

“What? Come _on,_ Dad, you gotta admit this is perfect!”

Scott tilted his head at his friend. “There’s no way I’m getting out of watching _Star Wars_ with you now, is there?”

“Not a chance,” Stiles bounced a gentle fist against Scott’s shoulder.

Derek’s phone buzzed and he dug it out of his pocket, peering at the screen.

“You better get on that shadow thing pretty quick,” he said, looking up, then glancing over at the Sherriff. “That was Chris. Looks like the Beast of Gévaudan just killed someone at the edge of town, out by the Preserve.”

Scott started to move forward, but Melissa held up a hand, which was echoed by Deaton.

“Gather your strength, Scott,” he admonished. “Heal. _Really_ heal. Not just your body, not just your wolf, but your pack.”

Scott nodded, glancing once at Derek, then Stiles, then back at Deaton. “If I’m going to beat this thing, I need my pack.”

“And if they are to survive the battle, the pack needs their Alpha,” Deaton nodded.

Scott curled his hand into a fist and Stiles bounced his on top of it.

“You know that’s right,” Stiles asserted.

Deaton smiled at the group. If their success lay in the strength of their bond, the McCall Pack was destined for greatness.

“Druids call this _conairt_ ,” Deaton told them.

Melissa smiled. “We call it family.”

* * *

**Author's Note:**

>  **a/n:** Floxglove is a real flower and it’s totally poisonous, but if mistletoe is fair game, I figure others are, too. Also, I got the idea of Scorpion venom from the Scorpion Sting in Final Fantasy IV. Don’t judge me?


End file.
